









■Bfiao 

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Drawn by] [Geo. Morrow 

Raftery, the Blind Poet of Connaught 



THE BOOK 77 
OF IRISH POETRY 



EDITED 
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES, MA. 




NEW YORK: 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



s* 



^1 



Printed by The; 

Educational Company 

of Ireland Limited 

at The Talbot Press 

Dublin 




[she? 

JAM 20 19)8 



. . To . . 

Douglas Hyde, ll.d., d.lm. 

President of the Gaelic League 

Because, alumni of one Irish College, 
And sons of fathers of the selfsame 
Chureh, 
Striving to swell the sum of Irish 
knowledge, 
Dear Creeveen Eevinn, we unite our 
seareh ; 
And eaeh of us an Irish Bardie brother 
In "Songs of Connaeht" and "The 
Gael" has found, 
This Poem-Book is yours— for to no 
other 
By sueh a kindly friendship am I 
bound. 

A. P. G. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Of anthologies of Irish verse there have been many. 
Miss Charlotte Brooke's " Irish Poetry," a volume of 
translations of her own from the Irish, led the way in the 
year 1789, and was followed by Hardiman's " Irish 
Minstrelsy," in 1 831, with metrical translations by Thomas 
Furlong, Henry Grattan Curran, and John D 'Alton. 
Both these volumes contained the Irish originals, as well 
as the translations from them, and both volumes were 
extremely valuable for their preservation of those 
originals, but suffered from the over ornate, and, indeed, 
often extremely artificial English verse into which they were 
translated. Highly finished that verse undoubtedly was ; 
here and there as fine as much of Macpherson's Ossian. 
But it was, as a rule, as untrue a presentment in English 
verse of Irish Gaelic poetry as Pope's version of the 
Iliad and Dryden's translation of the Aeneid are untrue 
expressions of the spirit and form of the Greek and Latin 
originals. As a matter of fact, these translators from the 
Irish had not learnt the lesson, not long afterwards learnt 
by Edward Walsh and Sir Samuel Ferguson, that the use 
of that poetical Hiberno-English speech, recently made 
popular by Douglas Hyde, Synge, Lady Gregory and 
others, was a far truer vehicle for the expression, in trans- 



VI INTRODUCTION. 

lation or adaptation, of Irish Gaelic poetry. Walsh 
indeed published his own translations of " Reliques of 
Ancient Jacobite Poetry " (1844) and his more char- 
acteristic " Irish Popular Songs " (1847), it might almost 
be thought, as a protest against the artificial character of 
previous collections of the kind, not excepting Mont- 
gomery's anthology, which preceded his second volume 
by a year. Dr. Drummond's " Ancient Irish Minstrelsy," 
translated by himself, which appeared in 1852, is an at- 
tempt to hark back to the eighteenth century and early 
nineteenth century formal school of poetry, but has 
fine passages, such as his " Cuchullin's Chariot," expanded 
from a passage in " The Breach in the Plain at 
Muirthemne." 

This wise tendency to treat Irish poetry in an Irish way, 
through the medium of what I have already called Hiberno- 
English speech, was lost sight of by the Young Irelanders, 
whose work was, as a rule, oratorical rather than poetical, 
when verse became the medium, or in very large part, 
the medium of their political propaganda. Thomas 
Davis and his friends fell more under the influence of 
Scott and Macaulay than under that of the Gaelic poets 
immediately preceding them or contemporary with them. 
No doubt they took a pleasure in printing Irish words in 
Irish characters here and there in some of their national 
lyrics, and now and again we find, in Davis more par- 
ticularly, the Irish human touch, which, when he had time 
to write poetry rather than verse, so distinguishes him. 
But as a rule the stirring appeals to patriotism on the part 
of the Young Ireland poets is little better than versified 
oratory. 



INTRODUCTION. Vll 

Thomas Moore was more individual as a poet than any 
of the Young Ireland group ; yet, whilst he undoubtedly 
possessed the Irish characteristics of wit and fancy, 
sentiment and satire, he had nothing of the spirit of the 
Irish countryside in his composition. Irish was not 
spoken by his parents or neighbours in Dublin, and when 
years afterwards he was seeking materials for his History 
of Ireland in the library of Trinity College, Dublin, he was 
amazed to find what a great body of Gaelic literature in 
prose and verse, utterly new to him, lay collected there 
before his eyes. The classics inspired the anacreontics 
of " Thomas Little " ; his poetical tales, coloured though 
they were by his Celtic imagination as well as by his West 
Indian recollections, were entirely derived from Eastern, 
never from Irish sources. The only purely Irish influence 
upon his work was that of Irish music, and that influence 
has made his Irish melodies, in part at any rate, imperish- 
able. 

In spite of his fine as well as faithful translations 
from the Irish, the influence of Byron upon Callanan is 
obvious, and Gerald Griffin, though much nearer to the 
spirit of his native soil as a poet than most of his con- 
temporaries, was drawn, like so many young Irishmen of 
letters, under London literary influences, and was never 
more than half emancipated from them. Mangan, on the 
other hand, had the good fortune to be able to study in 
translation some of the finer specimens of Gaelic verse, 
and his essentially mystic genius and fine musical ear 
drew from that old Irish poetry a something which is 
lacking in the writings of his contemporaries, Ferguson 
and Edward Walsh alone excepted. Yet Mangan, like 



Vlll INTRODUCTION. 

Moore, went to the East for some of his inspiration, 
though, unlike Moore, he drew more of it from contem- 
porary German poetry, which he translated, adapted and 
imitated with characteristic power. But Mangan at the 
end of his career did a hasty piece of work of a thoroughly 
Irish kind in his translations of the Gaelic " Poets and 
Poetry of Munster," for John O'Daly, the Gaelic pub- 
lisher and bookseller, " few of which," as Mr. D. T. 
O'Donoghue, his biographer, rightly says, " are of high 
poetical merit." But it is only fair to add, in Mr. 
O'Donoghue's words, that Mangan, who did not live to 
see them published, " would have given them," had he 
survived their appearance, "as he often did with his 
earlier poems, an additional polish or other necessary 
revision." 

The vulgar verse which exploited the stage Irishman 
before his time was transformed by Samuel Lover 
into a new medium for the expression of humorous 
character sketches of Irish life. These lyrics, written 
to Irish popular airs or original compositions by the 
author, had a great vogue in their day, and on the 
strength of the reputation achieved by them Lover pub- 
lished an Anglo-Irish anthology of Irish poetry, " Lyrics 
of Ireland," in 1858. Much pains has been bestowed 
on the collection and classification of the poems in this 
illustrated anthology. Its Anglo-Irish character is evident 
from the small proportion of either translations or adap- 
tations from the Irish that it contains — about one poem 
in ten — and " sentimental " poems are too predominant 
in the volume. Much of it, moreover, is mere " con- 
vivial and comic, historical and political " verse, but it 



INTRODUCTION. IX 

is, nevertheless the most comprehensive, as well as typical 
collection of Irish verse that had yet appeared, and, as 
it claims to be, the most " national " in the widest sense 
of the word. Crofton Croker's " Popular Songs of 
Ireland " is a collection of Anglo-Irish folk songs and 
ballads gleaned from an unfortunately narrow field, but 
though much still remains to be done to supplement 
it, more especially in the north of Ireland, Dr. Joyce has 
in his Folk Song volume of 1906 added a considerable 
number of Irish popular ballads in the English tongue 
to Croker's anthology. 

Meantime other anthologies of Irish poetry were 
seeing the light : Charles Gavan Duffy's, afterwards 
Sir Charles Gavan Duffy's, well-known volume of 
" The Ballad Poetry of Ireland," which had reached 
a fortieth edition in 1869 ; Hayes's two volumes of " The 
Ballads of Ireland " (1855), a very comprehensive but far 
from choice collection, and " The Harp of Erin," a small 
but interesting anthology, edited by Ralph Varian, 
and published in 1869, in which Northern writers are 
more adequately represented than elsewhere. To these 
may be added the " Spirit of the Nation," a collection 
of the best of the poems published in that famous political 
journal edited by Gavan Duffy ; and Michael Joseph 
Barry's collection, "The Songs of Ireland" (1845), to 
which Thomas Davis wrote a stirring introduction ; Denis 
Florence McCarthy's " The Book of Irish Ballads " 
(1846), and Hercules Ellis's " Songs of Ireland " and 
" Romances and Ballads of Ireland " (1849 and 1850) ; 
and William Johnston's " Boyne Book of Poetry and 
Song" (an Orange collection), 1859. 



X INTRODUCTION. 

With the exception of a volume of my own in the 
Mayfair Library, and, as its title (" Songs of Irish 
Wit and Humour ") shows, of limited scope, no 
anthology of Irish poetry appeared for many years, 
until the interesting American collection of Alfred 
M. Williams. The circumstances under which that 
anthology was compiled were remarkable. Mr. Williams, 
a reporter of the " New York Tribune " during Fenian 
days, was imprisoned in Dublin under the Arms Act 
for carrying a weapon which, as an American citizen, he 
had always been in the habit of doing. He solaced his 
enforced leisure by the study of Irish poetry, and even- 
tually published, with Messrs. Osgood & Co., of 
Boston, his scholarly and discriminating volume " The 
Poets and Poetry of Ireland." This anthology had 
the advantage of Longfellow's criticism as it was 
going through the Press, and is distinguished by the 
interesting essays which preface most of its sections 
and the critical and biographical notes which deal 
with the more important Irish poets. Like Lover's 
collection, it is divided into sections relating to the various 
types of Irish poetry, but more stress is laid by Williams 
upon translations from the Irish, and, generally speaking, 
it may be said to be more expressive of Gaelic than 
Anglo-Irish genius. It was followed by Mr. T. D. 
Sullivan's " Emerald Gems " (1885), " The Emerald 
Wreath," and three American- Irish collections : " The 
Ballad Poetry of Ireland," in " Ford's National Library " 
(1886), Connolly's " Household Library of Ireland's 
Poets" (1887), and "The New Universal Irish Song 
Book " (P. T. Kennedy, 1887). 



INTRODUCTION. XI 

Meantime there had been a fresh flowering of Irish 
poetry brought about by what has been called The Irish 
Literary Renaissance, whose first inspirers were Sir 
Samuel Ferguson, Mangan, Edward Walsh, and Aubrey 
De Vere ; but to the influence of Standish O' Grady, 
through his " Heroic History of Ireland," the main impulse 
to this movement was undoubtedly given. Mr. Yeats 
might have been drawn away to lead a school of English 
mystic poets but for that influence, and Dr. Todhunter 
and other writers would probably also have been contented 
to cast in their lot with the English poets amongst whom 
they lived. Mr. O'Grady, himself an Irish scholar, 
though perhaps more Greek than Irish in expression, 
fired the imagination of his friends and drew them to the 
contemplation of Irish heroic themes, for which he had 
shown so fine a feeling. Katharine Tynan, who had 
fallen under the spell of Rossetti, may be claimed as a 
disciple of his, as may Mr. T. W. Rolleston, but un- 
doubtedly Mr. Yeats was his greatest convert, and the 
founder, under his influence, of the Neo-Celtic School 
of Irish poetry, and, in conjunction with Lady Gregory, 
of the Irish Literary Theatre, on its heroic side. It is 
remarkable how his faithfulness to technique has im- 
pressed itself upon his followers. For like his brother poet, 
A.E. , he is an artist to his finger tips . If he has been blamed 
for the limited amount of his poetical output, he has at 
any rate a complete answer, that he has put artistic en- 
deavour into every poem he has written, and that he has, 
as a propagandist, spoken and written more for the 
creation of Irish Literary and Graphic Art, and with more 
effect, than any Irishman of his time, and, finally, that his 



XU INTRODUCTION. 

latest poetical work shows a remarkable departure in fresh 
and advanced directions. Mr. Yeats is also one of our 
anthologists, and his collection, " A Book of Irish Verse," 
shows a more catholic taste than could have been expected 
from one of his own fastidious word-for-word finish. 

Halliday Sparling's " Irish Minstrelsy " (1887) had 
its vogue before the new School of Irish Symbolists had 
arisen, under Mr. Yeats' aegis, and Mr. Hinkson's " Col- 
lection of Verse by members of Trinity College, Dublin " 
(1894), and his wife's {nee Katharine Tynan) delightful 
florilegium of " Irish Love Songs " also anticipated that 
poetical period, as to a large extent did the most ambitious 
and comprehensive volume of Irish verse that had yet 
appeared, " A Treasury of Irish Poetry in the English 
Tongue " (1890), edited by Dr. Stopford Brooke and 
Mr. T. W. Rolleston, afterwards his son-in-law. 

This anthology is more of a collection than a selection 
of Anglo-Irish Poetry or rather, as the editors describe 
it, " Irish poetry in the English tongue," for it contains 
not a few fine translations and adaptations from the Irish. 
It is, as it proposes to be, a compendium of poetical 
literature in the making, a history of Irish poetry in the 
English tongue, as shown by examples of every variety 
of it deserving critical recognition. 

Another important collection rather than selection 
of Irish poetry, and exhibiting great pains in its gathering, 
is Mr. Cooke's " The Dublin Book of Irish Verse," which 
has the advantage of being a practically up-to-date antho- 
logy. It is arranged in the main in chronological order, 
and typical illustrations are given, chiefly from Anglo- 
Irish writers, though it also contains many good translations 



INTRODUCTION. Xlll 

from the Irish. It has no literary introduction and no 
biographical sketches of the poets represented, or such 
short critical estimates of their work as are to be found in 
the Brooke-Rolleston collection, but there are about 
thirty pages of useful notes referring to the sources of the 
poems or explanatory of the allusions in them. 

Other important anthologies, and the latest in the field, 
are Mrs. Tynan Hinkson's and Mr. Padric Gregory's 
recently published volumes entitled " The Wild Harp " 
and " Modern Anglo-Irish Verse," respectively. The 
first volume, like Mr. Yeats's, contains the poems that have 
made a special appeal to the anthologist, poems likely " to 
capture for English ears, sensitive to a wild music, 
just such strains as might be sounded by the strings 
of a harp — something thin, strange, forlorn ; something 
a little unearthly and exquisite, else there would be no 
reason to garner it.'' This method of selection " shuts 
out reflective poetry, unless the reflection is brief and 
shining. It bars propagandist poetry altogether." 

Mr. Gregory's anthology only deals with poems 
whose authors were living when his selection was made. 
He only asks that his poets should be of Irish blood ; 
he is not careful that their work should be Irish in atmos- 
phere. He is very catholic in his taste, and introduces 
to his readers some half a dozen writers of finely dis- 
tinctive verse whose work is either quite fresh or has been 
hitherto overlooked by anthologists : " John Eglinton," 
Helen Lanyon, Sir Samuel Keightly, Florence Wilson. 

Though , partial to the ballad, and himself a master of 
this form of verse, he lays special stress on the symbolist 
lyrics of what we may call the Irish Georgian school of 



XIV INTRODUCTION. 

writers : Mr. Thomas MacDonagh, Mr. George Plunkett, 
Mr. Darell Figgis, Mr. J. H. Cousins, and Mr. Sidney 
Royse Lysaght. The most notable new ballad in his 
book is Miss Emily Lawless's " The Third Trumpet," 
one of the last poems she ever wrote and a very remark- 
able one. 

While dealing with the bibliography of the subject, 
certain British anthologies may be mentioned which have 
introduced Irish verse to the general body of readers. 
The first and most important of these is that beautiful 
volume " Lyra Celtica," selected with great discrimination 
by Mrs. William Sharp from the best Irish, Scotch, Welsh, 
Cornish and Breton poetry available in the year 1896, 
and prefaced by a striking introduction from the pen of 
her husband, who, as a Celtic writer, had adopted the 
nom de plume of Fiona McLeod. 

Next comes Mr. Brimley Johnson's charmingly illus- 
trated four volumes of British Ballads, now to be had 
for one shilling in " Everyman's Library," in which 
there is an interesting Irish section. It has been fol- 
lowed by the Oxford Book of Verse, edited by Sir Quiller 
Couch, whose Celtic instincts have led him to admit not a 
few Irish poems into his volume. Conspicuous amongst 
the writers for the book of Georgian Poets are some 
writers of Irish blood, and much room has been found in 
Mr. Walter Jerrold's " Living Poets " for the work of 
Irishmen and Irishwomen. 

Finally, attention should be called to two notable 
anthologies drawn straight from the Irish Gaelic. 

Dr. Sigerson, like Miss Brooke, has preferred to make 
all the translations from the Irish contained in his " Bards 



INTRODUCTION. XV 

of the Gael and Gall." This volume appeared in 1897, 
but much of the work had been done in the Sixties, 
when, following in the footsteps of Edward Walsh, Dr. 
Sigerson, in co-operation with the late John O'Daly, 
accomplished for Munster lyrics what Dr. Hyde has since 
achieved for the religious and love poetry of Connacht, 
in his two memorable books, " The Love Songs of 
Connacht " and " The Religious Songs of Connacht." 
In this collection, which is prefaced by a peculiarly interest- 
ing as well as scholarly introduction, and contains a wealth 
of valuable notes, Dr. Sigerson covers practically the whole 
ground of Gaelic poetical literature, not only making 
translations in the metres and spirit of Irish verse of every 
kind, heroic, religious, sententious, humorous, descriptive, 
erotic, hitherto undealt with, but being always ready to 
break a lance with former translators, such as Ferguson, 
Walsh and Mangan, by presenting fresh versions of his 
own of famous Gaelic originals. 
Lastly, we come to Miss Eleanor Hull's delightful volume 
The Poem Book of the Gael." This is written much 
on the same lines as Dr. Sigerson's book, but with these 
differences. Besides making some excellent trans- 
lations of her own from the Irish, she gives her readers 
the best metrical translations made by the leading Irish 
poets of this century and the last, and by such brilliant 
prose writers as Mr. Standish Hayes O'Grady, Professor 
Kuno Meyer and Lady Gregory. She covers as much 
ground as Dr. Sigerson, though she does not go into as 
close detail in the matter of the origins of Irish verse and 
its peculiar metric; but she presents a very fine prose trans- 
lation from her own hand of the " Saltair na Rann," a ninth 



XVI INTRODUCTION. 

century Irish version of " Paradise Lost and Regained," 
attributed to Oengus the Culdee, and never rendered 
into English before, and she prints in translation an 
interesting set of recently collected Irish Folk Poems, 
religious and secular, as well as translations in verse and 
prose from contemporary Gaelic poetry. 

In what respects does my own anthology of Irish 
poetry differ from those described. 

Roughly speaking it may be said, to be a selection of 
Irish Poetry, old and new, old and modern Gaelic poems 
in English verse translation and Anglo-Irish poetry of 
the last two centuries which have most appealed to me as 
illustrating the leading features of Gaelic, Hiberno-English 
and Anglo-Irish verse. I do not suggest that there are 
not other poems, or even many poems equal in merit 
to those chosen for this volume. But I have been careful 
to make such a selection under the seven heads which 
appear to me most illustrative of the special characteristics 
of Irish poetry as I hope will be found to yield as much 
variety of thought, style and metrical expression as could 
well be contained within the compass of from three to 
four hundred pages. My headings are " Nature Poetry," 
" Wonder Poetry," " Love Poetry," " War Poetry," 
" National Poetry," " Countryside Poetry," " Spiritual| 
and Philosophical Poetry," and " Religious Poetry." 

I have been led to adopt this order of subjects for goodl 
reasons. The earliest Irish poetry consists of mysticall 
nature hymns and Nature enters largely into the poems 
of the Cuculain and Fenian sagas, while nature poems! 
pure and simple are attributed to Fionn MacCumhaill 
himself. But, interblent with the visible beauties of this 



INTRODUCTION. XV11 

world are the invisible enchantments and supernatural 
appearances of the fairies, the denizens of that other 
world which, amongst the Gaels, was neither in heaven 
or hell, but in intermediate space. 

Love poetry finds early expression amongst the Gaels, 
much earlier expression from both sexes than is to be found 
in any other European literature. The Irish were without 
verse epics but their prose romances are interspersed 
with lyrics of many kinds, including love lyrics of poig- 
nant beauty. Amongst these may be mentioned Deirdre's 
Farewell to Alba, her lament over the bodies of Naisi, 
Ardan and Ainli, and her passionate rejection, a year later, 
of King Conor's attempts to win her love. The lamen- 
tation over their lovers of the two Credes, Fand's noble 
farewell to Cuculain and Grainne's Sleep Song over 
Diarmid, when they are hiding from the pursuit of 
Fionn, are love poems of the rarest quality. 

I have placed the Irish War poetry next, because it 
follows naturally upon the love contests between chief- 
tain and chieftain, and also because it stretches from 
pagan to early Christian times and through them, in its 
many moods of daring, triumph and defeat, down to the 
rebellion of '98, flickering out finally in Smith O'Brien's 
and the Fenian Rebellions. 

But it was not until the tribal system had been broken 
for ever that there emerged that spirit of common Irish 
nationality which makes Irish patriotic poetry so dis- 
tinctive. The love for Ireland is, no doubt, most ten- 
derly and perfectly expressed by St. Columba, but it is 
not until the clans had united in common defence of the 
whole country and until Ireland began to be described 



XVill INTRODUCTION. 

by her bards by such loving names as " The Little Dark 
Rose," or " The Silk of the Kine," or again by such titles 
as " Granuaile " or " Kathleen na Houlahan," or " The 
Shan van Vocht " that a spirit of nationalism had been 
aroused sufficient to endure and bear, because it hoped 
for, all things. This patriotic poetry, beginning as sug 
gested with St. Columba carried on by Keating, the 
historian, in his delightful " Letter to Erin," and then 
spreading in every direction over Ireland and overseas 
with Irish exiles, is in no sense confined to poets of any 
particular creed or political belief. It is as strong in 
Emily Lawless as in D'Arcy McGee, as fervently expressec 
by Sir Samuel Ferguson as Stephen Gwynn or Standish 
O'Grady or A.E. I doubt whether there is any poetica 
literature in the world so suffused with this genuine 
love of country or in which it is expressed with more 
delicate feeling. 

Folk songs have come to us in countless numbers frorr 
the Gaelic and Anglo-Irish alike, but the Gaelic Foils 
Songs are, without doubt, the finest. Specimens of thest 
have been given in translation with all the skill com- 
manded by Mangan, Ferguson, Walsh, Dr. Sigerson 
Dr. Hyde, Mr. P. J. McCall, Miss Eleanor Hull, an 
Mr. Thomas MacDonagh. For their collection warn 
obligations are due to Hardiman, Edward Walsh, Dr 
Sigerson, Dr. Hyde, Mr. McCall, Mr. P. H. Pearse and 
to the Gaelic League and Irish Folk Song Society 
They could ill be spared, speaking as they do straigh 
from the heart of the Irish people. 

Lastly, we have to deal with Irish religious poetry anc 
the spiritual and philosophical poetry which has followe 



INTRODUCTION. XIX 

it in recent years and which is the most remarkable out- 
come of contemporary Irish literary thought, unless 
indeed the new Irish literary drama may be said to rival 
it as an expression of the modern Irish mind ; though 
let it be noted that three of its most prominent repre- 
sentatives, Mr. W. B. Yeats, Mr. George Russell (A.E.) 
and Mr. Padraic Colum are also leading dramatists of 
the Irish Literary Theatre. 

Early Irish Religious Poetry is remarkable, not only 
for its fine metrical form, but for its cheerful spirituality, 
its open-air freshness, and for its occasional touches of 
kindly humour, and the later religious poetry of O'Daly 
and kindred writers as preserved by Dr. Hyde, whilst of 
a more sombre character, is beautifully fervid and extraor- 
dinarily finished in its technique. And what may be 
called the wild flowers of Irish religious poetry, the short 
prayers, invocations and charms are as delightful, in their 
degree, as all readers of Dr. Hyde's Religious Songs of 
Connacht must confess. 

And now I hand over to my readers the song wreath 
I have been long gathering for them. May they grow to 
love, as much as I do, what I have elsewhere described 
as : — 

" These sprays of Druid oak and yew, 

And Red Branch rowans hoar with dew, 

And sedges sighing from the strand 

Whence Oiseen rode to Fairy Land, 

And festals blooms whose bardic breath 

Pleasured the proud Elizabeth ; 

Heath plumes that o'er our Princes sang 

Exultant to the battle clang ; 



XX INTRODUCTION. 

Pale immortelles whose plaintive lay 
Still murmurs o'er their hero clay ; 
And wild flowers, plucked with artless art 
From out the Irish peasant's heart — 
Wood shamrocks, noineens from the lawn, 
The drinaun dhun and canavaun ; 
Arbutus from Killarney's shore, 
Bog myrtle, magical lusmore, 
And, every blossom else above, 
Dark Rosaleen's own rose of Love." 

Alfred Perceval Graves. 



Erinfa, 
Harlech. 



A CKNOWLEDGMENTS. 



The Editor and Publishers desire to thank Miss Eleanor 
Alexander for the use of poems by her father, the late Primate of 
Ireland, and by her mother, Cecil Frances Alexander, as well 
as for two poems of her own ; Mrs. William Allingham for per- 
mission to reprint poems by her late husband ; Mrs. George 
Savage-Armstrong for the like permission ; Miss Jane Barlow 
and George Allen and Co., for the use of Miss Barlow's poems ; 
Mrs. Hood for a poem by her fath&r, the late Mr. Richard Mahony ; 
the Hon. Frederick Lawless and Miss Venetia H. Cooper for the 
use of poems by the late The Hon. Emily Lawless, Lord Dunsany 
and the author for a poem by Francis E. Ledwidge, and Mrs. 
Leahy for a poem by her late husband, Mr. A . H. Leahy, M.P. ; 
Mr. Seumas MacManus for a poem by " Ethna Carbery " {the 
late Mrs. MacManus) ; Miss Nellie O'Brien for a poem 
by her aunt, the late Miss Charlotte Grace O'Brien ; Mr. 
D. J. O' Donoghue for two poems by Mr. Thomas Boyd ; 
Mrs. Ernest Rhys, for a poem by her sister, the late Elizabeth 
Mary Little ; his daughters, Mrs. Boothby and Miss Stokes, for 
two poems by the late Dr. Whitley Stokes ; Miss Frances Sullivan 
for several poems by her father, the late Mr. T. D. Sullivan ; 
Messrs. Chatto and Windus for two poems by Arthur O'Shaugh- 
nessy ; Messrs. Methuen for poems by Mr. Herbert Trench ; 
Mr. George Russell and Macmillan and Co. for poems by 
" A.E." ; Mr. W. H. Chesson and Messrs. Alston Rivers for 
poems by the late Nora Hopper {Mrs. W. H. Chesson) ; 
Mr. Elkin Mathews and those of the authors specified who are 
living for poems by Miss Alice Furlong, Mr. George A. Greene, 
Lionel Johnson, Mr. James Joyce, Mr. Francis Macnamara, Mr. 
Charles Weekes and Frances Wynne ; Messrs. Sealy, Bryers 



XXU ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. 

and Walker for a poem by Ellen O'Leary ; Mr. T. Fisher Unwin 
and the authors themselves for poems by Dr. George Sigerson 
and Mr. W. B. Yeats ; and Mr. John Stevenson and his Publisher, 
Mr. Edward Arnold, for a poem. 

The Editor and Publishers are also indebted to the following 
writers for permission to reprint their poems : Miss Eva Gore- 
Booth, The Rev. Stop ford A. Brooke, " WillCarew," Miss Eleanor 
Rogers Cox, Mrs. Edward Dowden (to whom thanks is also due 
for the use of poems by her late husband), Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 
" John Eglinton," Mr. Francis Fahy, Mr. Darrell Figgis, Miss 
Moireen Fox, Lady Gilbert, Mr. Padric Gregory, Mr. Stephen 
Gwynn, Miss Emily Hickey, Mrs. Katharine Tynan Hinkson, 
Mr. Edmond G. A. Holmes, Miss Eleanor Hull, Dr. Douglas 
Hyde, Mr. Robert Kerr, Miss Helen Lanyon, Mr. Shane Leslie, 
Miss Winifred M. Letts, Mr. Sidney Royse Lysaght, Mr. P. J. 
McCall, Mr. Thomas MacDonagh, Miss Alice Milligan, Mr. 
Cathal O'Byrne, Mr. Standish O'Grady, " Moira O'Neill," Mrs. 
Denis O' Sullivan, Mr. Seumas O'Sullivan, Dr. George Sigerson, 
Dora Sigerson (Mrs. Clement Shorter), Miss Elinor Sweetman, 
Dr. John Todhunter, Mr. Herbert Trench, Mr. W. B. Yeats, and 
Miss Ella Young. 

Finally and above all the Editor and Publishers have to thank 
Maunsel and Co., and the authors concerned for the special use of 
copyright poems by Mr. Joseph Campbell (Seosamh Mac 
Cathmhaoil) and his wife, Mrs. Nancy Campbell, Mr. Padraic 
Colum, Mr. J . H. Cousins, Miss Celia Duffin and Miss Ruth 
Duffin, Miss Susan L. Mitchell, Mr. George Roberts, Mr. 
T. W. Rolleston, Mr. James Stephens, and Mr. Seumas 
O'Sullivan, without which this anthology would have missed 
much of its representative character. 

It is interesting to learn that these Modern Irish Poets will be 
more fully represented in a Volume of Irish Verses to be published 
bv Maunsel and Co. 



INDEX TO AUTHORS. 



Page 

Adamnan, Saint 343 

"A.E." 115, 204, 291, 299 

Alexander, Cecil Frances 289,299 

Alexander, Eleanor 123, 136 

Alexander, William 27-29 

Allingham, William 15, 68, 74, 223, 282, 323 

Anonymous (English, or Translated from the Irish) 

* 2 > 5> 33> 34. 43. 44. 45> 4 6 > 47>-49> 8o > 
81,82,83,84,85,86,87,88, 89, 90, 

91,92, 133, 140, 141, 146, 148, 150, 

161, 190, 215, 217, 225, 263, 268, 269 

Armstrong, George F. Savage 129, 130, 131 

Banim, John 233 

Barlow, Jane 253, 285, 304 

Barry, Michael Joseph 178 

Boucicault, Dion 224 

Boyd, Thomas 56-58 

Bronte, Emily 96, 272 

Brooke, Charlotte 85 

Brooke, Stopford Augustus 52, 117, 286 

Callanan, Jeremiah Joseph 87, 273 

Campbell, Joseph 315 

Campbell, Nancy 253 

xxiii 



XXIV INDEX TO AUTHORS. 

Page 

Carbery, Ethna 55 

Carew, Will 246 

Carleton, William 13 

Casey, John Keegan 108 

Cherry, Andrew 237 

Chesson, Nora {see Hopper, Nora). 

Colum, Padraic 260 

columkille, saint 9, 184, 337 

Cousins, James H 126 

Cox, Eleanor . 139 

Culennain, Cormac, King and Bishop of Cashel .... 338 

Darley, George 99, 277, 278 

Davis, Francis 218 

Davis, Thomas Osborne 103, 157, 169 

De Vere, Aubrey... 105, 162, 163, 188, 191, 215, 276, 

277, 285 

De Vere, Sir Aubrey 11, 12 

Dowden, Edward 14, 284 

Dowden, Mrs. Edward 302, 304 

Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan 170, 174 

Dufferin, Lady 221 

Duffin, Celia 247 

Duffin, Ruth 72 

Eglinton, John 317 

Fahy, Francis A : 128 

Ferguson, Sir Samuel... 49, 59, 88, 90, 92, 142, 145, 210 

Figgis, Darrell 31, 314 

Fitzgerald, Edward 320,321 

Forrester, Ellen 240 

Fox, Moireen 30, 73 



INDEX TO AUTHORS. XXV 

Page 

Frazer, John de Jean 197 

Furlong, Alice 23, 122, 312 

Geoghegan, Arthur Gerald . 189 

Gore-Booth, Eva 23, 302, 313 

Greene, George Arthur 24, 205 

Gregory, Padric 190, 249, 257 

Griffin, Gerald . 70, 134 

Gwynn, Stephen Lucius 180, 207 

Hennessy, W. M t 47 

Hickey, Emily 62, 124 

Hinkson, Katharine Tynan 18, 93, 115, 242 

Hogan, Michael 220 

Holmes, Edmund G. A 16, 17, 136,295 

Hopper, Nora 19, 67, 72, 205 

Hull, Eleanor 32, 82, 89, 310, 340, 342 

Hyde, Douglas 84, 91, 133, 333, 345 

Ingram, John Kells 195 

Irwin, Thomas Caulfield 104, 229 

Johnson, Lionel 120, 177, 206 

Joyce, James 262 

Joyce, Robert Dwyer 109, 191 

Kavanagh, Rose 22, 292 

Keating, Geoffrey 185 

Keegan, John 227 

Kerr, Robert 255 

Lane, Denny 97 

Lanyon, Helen .-.. 250 

Lawless, The Hon. Emily .... 167, 168, 208, 296, 312 

Leahy, A. H 34 

Ledwidge, Francis E 311 



XXVI INDEX TO AUTHORS. 

Page 

Lefanu, Joseph Sheridan 231 

Leslie, Shane 152 

Letts, Winifred M 20, 27, 214, 245, 255 

Little, Elizabeth Mary 293 

Lover, Samuel 226 

Lysaght, Sidney Royse 119, 309 

McCall, Patrick Joseph 241, 244, 245, 343 

McCarthy, Denis Florence 10, 280 

MacDonagh, Thomas 85, 86, 135, 320 

McGee, Thomas D'Arcy 198 

McKowen, James 248 

Macnamara, Francis 317 

Maelisu, Saint 340, 341 

Mahony, Francis Sylvester (Father Prout) 194 

Mahony, Richard 156 

Mangan, James Clarence 12, 65, 153, 165, 186 

Milligan, Alice .. 207, 293 

Mitchell, Susan L 297 

Moore, Thomas 98, 164, 174, 271, 274 

Mozeen, Thomas 222 

Mulholland, Rosa (Lady Gilbert) no 

Noel, The Hon. Roden 25 

O'Brien, Charlotte Grace 236 

O'Byrne, Cathal 123 

O'Daly, Muiredach 338, 340 

O'Donnell, John Francis 193 

Ogle, The Hon. George 95 

O'Grady, Standish 15, 23, 200 

O'Hagan, John 106 

O'Hussey, The Bard 153 



INDEX TO AUTHORS. XXV11 

Page 

O'Leary, Ellen 199 

O'Neill, Moira (Mrs. Skrine) 17, 132, 258, 259 

O'Reilly, John Boyle 101 

Orr, James 192 

O'Shaughnessy, Arthur 1, 116 

O'Sullivan, Mrs. Denis 118 

o'sullivan, seumas 76, 121, 258 

Parnell, Fanny 203 

Patrick, Saint 328, 329 

Petrie, George 86 

Plunkett, Joseph 318 

Raftery 218 

Reynolds, George Nugent 102 

Roberts, George 346 

Rolleston, Thomas William 37 

Sheehan, Patrick A 300 

Sigerson, Dora (Mrs. Clement Shorter) 61 121 

Sigerson, George 34, 43, 44, 71, 141 

Stephens, James 306 

Stevenson, John 21 

Stokes, Whitley 150, 324 

Sullivan, Timothy Daniel 179, 201 

Sweetman, Elinor 76, 305 

Tighe, The Hon. Mrs 272 

todhunter, john 25, 209, 287, 318 

Tonna, Charlotte Elizabeth 159 

Trench, Archbishop 283 

Trench, Herbert 51, 113, 124 

Waller, John Francis 101,279 

Walsh, Edward ., , 94 



XXV111 INDEX TO AUTHORS. 

Page 

Weekes, Charles 301 

Wolfe, Charles 100, 176 

Wynne, Frances 112 

Yeats, William Butler 38, 112, 113, 287 

Young, Ella 29, 307, 308 



CONTENTS. 



[Where not otherwise indicated the poetic setting, whether original 
or in translation from the Irish, is by the Editor."] 



Page 

Dedication iii 

Introduction v 

Acknowledgements xxi 

Frontispiece by George Morrow. 

Ode Arthur O'Shaughnessy i 

IRISH NATURE POETRY. 

The Scribe «... 2 

The Song of Amorgen 3 

First Winter-Song 4 

King and Hermit 5 

St. Columba in Iona 9 

The Irish Wolf-Hound. Denis Florence 

McCarthy 10 

The Rock of Cashel Sir Aubrey De Vere... 11 

Glengarriff Sir Aubrey De Vere... 11 

Siberia James Clarence 

Mangan 12 

A Sigh for Knockmany William Carleton 13 



XXX CONTENTS. 

Page 

Sonnet Edward Dowden.... 14 

Four Ducks on a Pond William Allingham.... 15 

Foam Flakes Standish O'Grady 15 

From Shannon to Sea E.G. A.Holmes 16 

Eternal Vigil E.G. A. Holmes 17 

Birds Moira O'Neill 17 

Sheep and Lambs Katharine Tynan 

Hinkson 18 

April in Ireland N ora Hopper 19 

Glorny's Weir Winifred M. Letts 20 

The Nine Green Glens John Stevenson 21 

Lough Bray, I Rose Kavanagh 22 

Lough Bray, II Standish O'Grady 23 

An Awakening Alice Furlong 23 

The Little Waves of Breffny . Eva Gore-Booth 23 

On Great Sugarloaf George A. Greene 24 

A June Day John Todhunter 25 

The Swimmer Roden Noel 25 

Spring, the Travelling Man. . Winifred M. Letts 27 

A Fine Day on Lough Swilly William Alexander 27 

Frost-morning William A lexander 29 

The Wind from the West... Ella Young 29 

To the Mountain Ben Bulben Moireen Fox 30 

Anach Darrell Figgis 31 

IRISH WONDER POETRY 

The Fairies' Lullaby Eleanor Hull 32 

The Fairy Host 33 

The Song of the Fairies A.H.Leahy 34 

Sea-Maiden's Vengeance ... George Sigerson 34 



CONTENTS. XXXI 

Page 

Song of Maelduin Thomas William 

Rolleston 37 

The Island of Sleep William Butler Yeats 38 

On the Waters of Moyle... George Sigerson 43 

The Return of the Children 

of Lir George Sigerson 44 

The Sea God's Address to 

Bran 46 

The Spear of Keltar W. M. Hennessy 47 

The Legend of Fergus Lei- 

deson Sir Samuel Ferguson... 49 

Deidre Dancing Herbert Trench 51 

The Noble Lay of Aillinn . . . Stopford A . Brooke .... 52 

The Love-Talker Ethna Carbery 55 

To the Leanan Sidhe ThomasBoyd 56 

The King's Son ThomasBoyd 58 

Little Sister 58 

The Fairy Thorn Sir Samuel Ferguson 59 

On All Souls' Night Dora Sigerson 61 

The Ship from Tirnanoge... Emily Rickey 62 

The Fairies' Passage James Clarence Mangan 65 

The Fairy Fiddler Nora Hopper 67 

The Fairies William Allingham .... 68 

Hy-Brasail Gerald Griffin 70 

The Heather Glen George Sigerson 71 

The Wind Among the Reeds . Nora Hopper 72 

The Changeling Ruth Duffin 72 

The Faery Lover Moireen Fox 73 

The Lepracaun or Fairy 

Shoemaker William Allingham ... 74 



XXXU CONTENTS. 

Page 

Fairy Song Elinor Sweetman 76 

The Others Seurnas 0' Sullivan 76 

IRISH LOVE POETRY. 

What is Love? 80 

The Song of Crede, Daugh- 
ter of Guare 81 

She Eleanor Hull 82 

Credhe's Lament for Cail 82 

Lament of Fand at parting 

from Cuchulain 83 

Were you on the Mountain ? Douglas Hyde 84 

Pulse of my Heart Charlotte Brooke 85 

Two Songs from the Irish, I. Thomas MacDonagh... 85 

„ „ „ II. Thomas MacDonagh... 86 

Pearl of the White Breast. . . George Petrie 86 

The Outlaw of Loch Lene. . . Jeremiah Joseph 

Callanan 87 

Cean Dubh Deelish Sir Samuel Ferguson 88 

The Flower of Nut-brown 

Maids Eleanor Hull 89 

Pastheen Finn Sir Samuel Ferguson... 90 

She is my Love 91 

Happy 'tis, Thou Blind, for 

Thee Douglas Hyde 91 

The Coolun Sir Samuel Ferguson 92 

Irish Love-Song Katharine Tynan 

Hinkson 93 

Cashel of Munster Edward Walsh 94 

Molly Asthore George Ogle 95 



CONTENTS. XXxiii 

Page 

Remembrance Emily Bronte 96 

Lament of the Irish Maiden. Denny Lane 97 

The Desmond Thomas Moore 98 

Love Song George Darley 99 

If I had thought thou 

couldst have died Charles Wolfe 100 

A White Rose John Boyle O'Reilly... 101 

Kitty Neil John Francis Waller. .. 101 

Kathleen O'More George Nugent 

Reynolds 102 

The Boatman of Kinsale Thomas Davis 103 

Minnie Thomas Caulfield 

Irwin 104 

Song Aubrey De Vere 105 

Song Aubrey De Vere 105 

An Ancient Tale John O'Hagan 106 

Donal Kenny John Keegan Casey... 108 

The Drynan Dhun Robert Dwyer Joyce... 109 

The Wild Geese Rosa Mulholland no 

Outside Frances Wynne 112 

To an Isle in the Water William Butler Yeats. . . 112 

An Old Song Resung William Butler Yeats. .. 113 

Killary Herbert Trench 113 

The Wood Pigeon Katharine Tynan 115 

Forgiveness A.E 115 

Song Arthur O'Shaughnessy 116 

Nature and Love Stopford A. Brooke... 117 

The Little Flutes Mrs. Denis 0' Sullivan 118 

The Penalty of Love Sidney Royse Lysaght 119 

To Morfydd Lionel Johnson 120 



XXXI V CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Sedges Seumas 0' Sullivan ... 121 

Can Doov Deelish Dora Sigerson 121 

The Betrayal Alice Furlong 122 

Song Eleanor Alexander 123 

A Silent Mouth Cathal 0' Byrne 123 

His Home and his own 

Country Emily Hickey 124 

Bitter Serenade Herbert Trench 124 

The Wings of Love James H. Cousins 126 

Little Mary Cassidy Francis A . Fahy 128 

Molleen Oge 129 

The Yin Wee Luik G.F. Savage- A rmstrong 1 29 

The Shawlie G.F. Savage- Armstrong 130 

The Wee Lassie's First Luve G. F. Savage- Armstrong 131 

Cuttin' Rushes Moira O'Neill 132 

Little Child, I call thee Douglas Hyde 133 

Eileen Aroon Gerald Griffin 134 

Song Thomas MacDonagh. . . 135 

Now Eleanor Alexander 136 

Amor Fons Amoris Edmond G. A. Holmes 136 

IRISH WAR POETRY. 

Ancient Irish Rann 138 

Cuchulain's Wooing Eleanor R. Cox 139 

Leagh's Summons to Cuchu- 

lain 140 

Where is the Sweetest Music ? George Sigerson 141 

The Giant Walker Sir Samuel Ferguson. . . 142 

The Washer of the Ford Sir Samuel Ferguson. . . 145 



CONTENTS. XXXV 

Page 
A Dirge for King Niall of the 

Nine Hostages 146 

The Song of the Sword of 

Carroll 148 

King Ailill's Death Whitley Stokes 150 

Rebel Mother's Lullaby Shane Leslie 152 

Later Bardic War Poetry. 

O'Hussey's Ode to the 

Maguire James Clarence 

Mangan 153 

A Lament for the Red Earl.. Richard Mahony 156 

Lament for the Death of 

Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill . . . Thomas Davis 1 57 

Jacobite and Anti- Jacobite Lays. 

The Maiden City Charlotte Elizabeth 

Tonna 159 

The Battle of the Boyne... Anon 161 

A Ballad of Sarsfield Aubrey De Vere 162 

A Ballad of Athlone (2nd 

Siege) Aubrey De Vere 163 

After the Battle (of Aughrim) Thomas Moore 1 64 

Irish Brigade Ballads. 

A Farewell to Patrick Sars- 
field James Clarence 

Mangan 165 

Fontenoy, 1745, I. Emily Lawless 167 

Fontenoy, 1745, II Emily Lawless 168 



XXXVI CONTENTS. 

Page 

Clare's Dragoons Thomas Davis 169 

Cremona Sir A. Conan Doyle... 170 

The Irish Colonel Sir A. Conan Doyle... 174 

Later Irish War Poetry. 

Oh! The Sight Entrancing.. Thomas Moore 174 

The Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe 1 76 

Ways of War Lionel Johnson 177 

The Sword Michael Joseph Barry 178 

A Soldier's Wake Timothy Daniel 

Sullivan 179 
A Song of Defeat Stephen Gwynn 180 

IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 

There is a Grey Eye .., St.Columkille 184 

Geoffrey Keating to his 

Letter Geoffrey Keating 185 

Dark Rosaleen James Clarence 

Mangan 186 

Dirge of Rory O'More Aubrey De Vere 188 

After Aughrim Arthur Gerald 

Geoghegan 189 
A Bard's Lament over his 

Children Padric Gregory 190 

The Little Black Rose Aubrey De Vere 191 

The Wind that Shakes the 

Barley Robert Dwyer Joyce... 191 

The Irishman James Orr 192 

A Spinning Song John Francis O'Donnell 1 93 



CONTENTS. XXXV11 

Page 

The Bells of Shandon Francis Sylvester 

Mahony (Fr. Prout) 194 
The Memory of the Dead... John Kelts Ingram ... 195 

Song for July 12th, 1843 John de Jean Frazer... 197 

Memories Thomas D'Arcy McGee 198 

To God and Ireland True... Ellen O'Leary 199 

I give my Heart to Thee... Standish 0' Grady 200 

Song from the Backwoods... T. D. Sullivan 201 

After Death Fanny Parnell 203 

An Irish Face A.E 204 

The Dark Man Nora Hopper 205 

Irish Memories George A. Greene 205 

Celtic Speech Lionel Johnson 206 

A Song of Freedom A lice Milligan 207 

Ireland Stephen Lucius Gwynn 207 

An Appeal Emily Lawless 208 

Irish Melodies John Todhunter 209 

Lament for Thomas Davis... Sir Samuel Ferguson... 210 

IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 

Blessings Winifred M. Letts 214 

The Slaying of Conbeg 215 

The Wedding of the Clans. . . Aubrey DeV ere 215 

Eamonn an Chnuic 217 

The Blind Poet Anthony Raftery 218 

My Ulick Francis Davis 218 

Draherin O Machree Michael Hogan 220 

Dublin Bay Lady Dufferin 221 

The Kilruddery Hunt Thomas Mozeen 222 



XXXV111 CONTENTS. 

Page 

ADream William Allingham ... 223 

A Peasant Woman's Song... Dion Boucicault 224 

Kitty of Coleraine Anon 225 

The Low-backed Car Samuel Lover 226 

The "Dark Girl" by the 

" Holy Well " John Keegan 227 

The Potato Digger's Song. . . Thomas Caulfield Irwin 229 
A Drunkard's Address to a 

Bottle of Whiskey Joseph Sheridan Lefanu 23 1 

Soggarth Aroon John Banim 233 

Father O'Flynn 235 

The River Charlotte Grace O'Brien 236 

Tom Moody Andrew Cherry 237 

Herring is King 238 

Irish Widow's Message to 

her Son in America Ellen Forrester 240 

Herself and Myself Patrick J. McCall 241 

Song of an Island Fisherman Katharine Tynan 

Hinkson 242 

O Drimin Dhu Deelish 243 

Preparations for Winter Patrick J. McCall 244 

My Blessing be on Waterford Winifred M. Letts,.... 245 

If all the young Maidens... Patrick J. McCall 245 

The Six Road Ends WillCarew 246 

God's Fool CeliaDuffin 247 

Bonnie Twinkling Starnies .. James McKowen 248 

They're only Weans Padric Gregory 249 

The Hill o' Dreams. ........... Helen Lanyon 250 

The Blue, Blue Smoke 251 

Out of Hearing Jane Barlow 253 



CONTENTS. XXXIX 

Page 

Like one I know Nancy Campbell 253 

Irish Lullaby 254 

Dreams Winifred M. Letts 255 

In Ballyshannon Robert J. Kerr 255 

Padric the Fidiler Padric Gregory 257 

The Starling Lake SeumasO' Sullivan 258 

The Grand Match Moira O'Neill 258 

Corrymeela Moira O'Neill 259 

An Old Woman of the Roads Padraic Colum 260 

SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 

Strings in the Earth and Air. . James Joyce 262 

The Tryst after Death 263 

Alexander the Great 268 

Early Irish Triads 269 

Thro' Grief and thro' Danger Thomas Moore 271 

To Time TheHon.Mrs.Tighe... 272 

Last Lines Emily Bronte 272 

Moonlight /. /. Callanan 273 

Lines on the Death of Sheri- 
dan Thomas Moore 274 

The Sun God Aubrey De Vere 276 

Sorrow Aubrey De Vere 277 

The Fallen Star George Darley 277 

The Sea Ritual George Darley 278 

A Waking Dream John Francis Waller... 279 

A Lament Denis Florence 

McCarthy 280 
i*Eolian Harp William Allingham ... 282 



Xl CONTENTS. 

Page 

O ! Wondrous Death Archbishop Trench .... 283 

Lady Margaret's Song Edward Dowden 284 

Epitaph Aubrey De Vere 285 

An Errand Jane Barlow 285 

The Earth and Man Stop ford A. Brooke .... 286 

Song John Todhunter 287 

The Ballad of Father Gilligan William Butler Yeats 287 
The Irish Mother's Lament.. Cecil Frances Alexander 289 

Sacrifice A.E 291 

St. Michan's Churchyard... Rose Kavanagh 292 

Life Elizabeth Mary Little. . . 293 

A Benediction Alice Milligan 293 

Too Deep for Tears Edmund G. A. Holmes 295 

A Retort Emily Lawless 296 

Carrick Susan Mitchell 297 

Connla's Well A.E 299 

Dreams Cecil Frances Alexander 299 

The Soul-Bell Patrick A. Sheehan... 300 

Titan Charles Weekes 301 

A Moment's Insight Eva Gore-Booth 302 

There shall be no more Sea Mrs. Edward Dowden.. 302 

Adrift Mrs. Edward Dowden.. 304 

A Song of Sun Setting Jane Barlow 304 

To a Nightingale Elinor Sweetman 305 

The Shell James Stephens 306 

The Rose of Silence..... Ella Young 307 

The Bough of Time Ella Young 307 

A Dream Garden Ella Young 308 

The Unexplored Sidney Royse Lysaght.. 309 

Youth and Age Eleanor Hull 310 



CONTENTS, xli 

Page 

Growing Old Francis E.Ledwidge.... 311 

I will Forget Alice Furlong 312 

From the Burren Emily Lawless 312 

The Weaver Eva Gore-Booth ,. 313 

Coire Dubh Linn Dan ell Figgis 314 

Ghosts Joseph Campbell ... ... 315 

The Omen " John Eglinton " 317 

Diminutivus Ululans Francis Macnamara ... 317 

The Marseillaise John Todhunter 318 

The Stars Sang in God's 

Garden, I. & II JosephPlunkett 318 

What is White ? Thomas MacDonagh... 320 

Alas that Spring should van- 
ish with the Rose Edward Fitzgerald 320 

The End of All Edward Fitzgerald 321 

The Touchstone William Allingham ... 323 

Man Octipartite Whitley Stokes 324 

RELIGIOUS POETRY. 

Patrick's Blessing on Munster ^328 

The Breastplate of St. Patrick 329 

A Prayer to the Virgin 331 

Columbkille's Farewell Douglas Hyde 333 

On the Flightiness of 

Thought 334 

The Monk and his White Cat 336 

The Scribe 337 

Quatrains from the Early 

Irish 338 



xlii CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Sea-going Bark 338 

The Shaving of Murdoch 338 

Consecration Eleanor Hull 340 

Hymn to the Holy Spirit 340 

Maelisu's Hymn to the Arch- 
angel Michael 341 

The Soul's Desire Eleanor Hull 342 

The Feilire of Adamnan Patrick J. McCall 343 

Christmas Hymn Douglas Hyde 345 

A Confession for Forgiveness 345 

The Convent Bell George Roberts 346 



ODE. 

We are the music-makers, 

And we are the dreamers of dreams, 
Wandering by lone sea-breakers, 

And sitting by desolate streams ; 
World-losers and world-forsakers, 

On whom the pale moon gleams ; 
Yet we are the movers and shakers 

Of the world for ever, it seems 

With wonderful deathless ditties 
We build up the world's great cities, 
And out of a fabulous story 
We fashion an empire's glory. 
One man with a dream at pleasure 

Shall go forth and conquer a crown, 
And three with a new song's measure 

Can trample an empire down. 

We, in the ages lying 

In the buried past of the earth, 
Built Nineveh with our sighing, 

And Babel itself with our mirth ; 
And o'erthrew them with prophesying 

To the old of the new world's worth ; 
For each age is a dream that is dying, 

Or one that is coming to birth. 

Arthur O'Shaughnessy. 



THE SCRIBE. 

[From the Early Irish.] 

A leafy grove surrounds me quite ; 

For my delight the blackbirds flute ; 
While o'er my little book's lined words 

Sweet warbling birds their Scribe salute. 

The Cuckoo in his mantle grey 

Cries on all day through lush tree tops. 

And verily — God shield me still! 

Well speeds my quill beneath the copse. 



BOOK OF IRISH POETRY 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 



THE SONG OF AMORGEN 

By Amor gen, a pre-historic Bard. 
[From the Books of Leccan and Ballymote.] 

I am the wind on the sea for might ; 

I am a wave of the deep for length ; 

I am the sound of the sea for fright ; 

I am a stag of seven points for strength. 

I am a hawk on a cliff for lightness ; 

I am a tear of the sun for brightness ; 

I am a salmon in Wisdom's fountain ; 

I am a lake that afar expands ; 

I am Knowledge and Poesy's mountain ; 

I am a spear in a spoiler's hands. 

I am a God who fashions smoke from magic fire for a 

Druid to slay with. 
Who but I will make clear each question the mind of man 

still goes astray with ? 
Who but myself the assemblies knows of the house of the 

sages on high Slieve Mis ? 
Who but the poet knows where in the ocean the going down 

of the great sun is ? 



4 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Who seven times sought the Fairy Forts without or fear 

or injury ? 
And who declareth the moon's past ages and the ages 

thereof that have yet to be ? 
Who out of the shadowy haunts of Tethra hitherward 

draweth his herds of kine ? 
Who segregated them from each other to browse the 

plains of the watery brine ? 
For whom will the fish of the laughing ocean be making 

welcome if not for me ? 
Who shapeth as I can the spell of letters, a weapon to 

win them out of the sea ? 
Invoke a satirist, fit incantations to weave for you, O folk 

of the waves, 
Even me, the Druid, forth furnishing Ogham letters on 

oaken staves, 
Even me, the parter of combatants, even me who the 

Fairy Height 
Enter to find a cunning enchanter to lure with me your 

shoals to light ! 

I am the Wind of the Sea for might. 



FIRST WINTER-SONG. 

Take my tidings ! 
Stags contend ; 
Snows descend — ■ 
Summer's end ! 



A chill wind raging ; 
The sun low keeping ; 
Swift to set 
O'er seas high sweeping, 

Dull red the fern ; 
Shapes are shadows ; 
Wild geese mourn 
O'er misty meadows. 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 

Keen cold limes 
Each weaker wing. 
Icy times — 
Such I sing ! 

Take my tidings ! 



KING AND HERMIT. 

[A tenth century poem, first published and translated 
by Professor Kuno Meyer.] 

Marvan, brother of King Guare of Connaught, in the 
seventh century, had renounced the life of a warrior 
prince for that of a hermit. The King endeavoured to 
persuade his brother to return to his Court, when the 
following colloquy took place between them. 

Guare. 

Now, Marvan, hermit of the grot, 
Why sleepest thou not on quilted feathers ? 

Why on a pitch-pine floor instead 

Still make thy bed, despite all weathers ? 

Marvan. 

I have a shieling in the wood, 

None save my God has knowledge of it, 

An ash tree and a hazel nut 

Its two sides shut, great oak-boughs roof it. 

Two heath-clad posts beneath a buckle 
Of honeysuckle its frame are propping, 

The woods around its narrow bound 

Swine fattening mast are richly dropping. 

From out my shieling not too small, 

Familiar all, fair paths invite me, 
Now, blackbird, from my gable end, 

Sweet sable friend, thy notes delight me ! 



BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

With joy the stags of Oakridge leap 
Into their clear and deep-banked river, 

Far off, red Roiny glows with joy, 

Muckraw, Moinmoy in sunshine quiver. 

With mighty mane a green-barked yew 
Upholds the blue ; his fortress green 

An oak uprears against the storms — 
Tremendous forms, stupendous scene ! 

Mine apple-tree is full of fruit 

From crown to root — a hostel's store — 

My bonny nut-full hazel bush 

Leans branching lush against my door. 

A choice pure spring of cooling draught 
Is mine ; what prince has quaffed a rarer ? 

Around it cresses keen, O King, 
Invite the famishing wayfarer. 

Tame swine and wild and goat and deer 
Assemble here upon its brink, 

Yea ! even the badger's brood draw near 
And without fear lie down to drink. 

A peaceful troop of creatures strange, 
They hither range from wood and height, 

To meet them slender foxes steal 
At vesper peal, O my delight ! 

These visitants, as to a Court, 
Frequent resort to seek me out, 

Pure water, Brother Guare, are they, 
The salmon grey, the speckled trout : 

Red rowans, dusky sloes and mast — 
O unsurpassed and God-sent dish, 

Blackberries, whortleberries blue, 

Red strawberries to my taste and wish ; 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 

Sweet apples, honey of wild bees, 
And, after them, of eggs a clutch, 

Haws, berries of the juniper — 

Who, King, could cast a slur on such ? 

A cup with mead of hazel-nut 

Outside my hut, in summer shine, 

Or ale, with herbs from wood and spring, 
Are worth, O King, thy costliest wine. 

Bright bluebells o'er my board I throw — 
A lovely show my feast to spangle — 

The rushes' radiance, oaklets gray, 

Briar-tresses gay — sweet, goodly tangle^ 

When brilliant summer casts once more 
Her cloak of colour o'er the fields, 

Sweet-tasting marjoram, pignut, leek — 
To all who seek — her verdure yields. 

Her bright red-breasted little men 
Their lovely music then outpour, 

The thrush exults, the cuckoos all 
Around her call and call once more. 

The bees, earth's small musicians, hum, 
No longer dumb, in gentle chorus, 

Like echoes faint of that long plaint 

The fleeing wild-fowl murmur o'er us. 

The wren, an active songster now, 

From off the hazel-bough pipes shrill, 

Woodpeckers flock in multitudes 

With beauteous hoods and beating bill. 

With fair white birds, the crane and gull, 
The fields are full, while cuckoos cry. 

No mournful music ! Heath poults dun 
Through russet heather sunward fly. 



BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

The heifers now with loud delight, 
Summer bright, salute thy reign ; 

Comfort smooth for toilsome loss 
'Tis now to cross the fertile plain. 

The warblings of the wind that sweep 
From branchy wood to sapphire sky, 

The river falls, the swan's far note — 
Delicious music floating by ! 

Earth's bravest band, because unhired, 
All day untired, makes cheer for me. 

In Christ's own eyes of endless youth 
Can this same truth be said of thee ? 

What though in Kingly pleasures now 

Beyond all riches thou rejoice, 
Content am I my Saviour good 

Should on this wood have set my choice. 

Without one hour of war or strife, 
Through all my life at peace I fare. 

Where better can I keep my tryst 

With our Lord Christ, O brother Guare ? 

Guare. 

My glorious Kingship, yea ! and all 
My sire's estates that fall to me, 

My Marvan, I would gladly give, 

So I might live my life with thee. 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 



ST. COLUMBA IN IONA. 

[From an Irish manuscript in the Burgundian Library, 
Brussels.] 

Delightful would it be to me 

From a rock pinnacle to trace 
Continually 

The ocean's face ; 
That I might watch the heaving waves 

Of noble force 
To God the Father chant their staves 

Of the earth's course ; 
That I might mark its level strand, 

To me no lone distress, 
That I might hark the sea-bird's wondrous band — 

Sweet source of happiness ; 
That I might hear the clamorous billows thunder 

On the rude beach, 
That by my blessed church side I might ponder 

Their mighty speech, 
Or watch surf-flying gulls the dark shoal follow 

With joyous scream, 
Or mighty ocean monsters spout and wallow — 

Wonder supreme ! 

That I might well observe of ebb and flood 

All cycles therein ; 
And that my mystic name might be for good 

But " Cul-ri, Erin." 
That gazing toward her on my heart might fall 

A full contrition, 
That I might then bewail my evils all, 

Though hard the addition ; 
That I might bless the Lord who all things orders 

For their great good ; 
The countless hierarchies through Heaven's bright 
borders — 

Land, strand and flood. 



10 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

That I might search all books and from their chart 

Find my soul's calm ; 
Now kneel before the heaven of my heart, 

Now chant a psalm ; 
Now meditate upon the King of Heaven, 

Chief of the Holy Three ; 
Now ply my work, by no compulsion driven. 

What greater joy could be ? 
Now plucking dulse upon the rocky shore, 

Now fishing eager on, 
Now furnishing food unto the famished poor ; 

In hermitage anon. 
The guidance of the King of Kings 

Hath been vouchsafed unto me ; 
If I keep watch beneath His wings, 

No evil shall undo me. 



THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND. 

[From " The Foray of Con O'Donnell."] 

His stature tall, his body long, 

His back like night, his breast like snow, 
His fore-leg pillar-like and strong, 

His hind-leg like a bended bow ; 
Rough curling hair, head long and thin, 

His ear a leaf so small and round ; 
Not Bran, the favourite dog of Finn, 

Could rival John MacDonnell's hound. 

As fly the shadows o'er the grass, 

He flies with step as light and sure, 
He hunts the wolf through Tostan pass, 

And starts the deer by Lisanoure. 
The music of the Sabbath bells, 

O Con ! has not a sweeter sound 
Than when along the valley swells 

The cry of John MacDonnell's hound. 

Denis Florence McCarthy. 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. II 



THE ROCK OF CASHEL. 

Royal and saintly Cashel ! I would gaze 

Upon the wreck of thy departed powers 

Not in the dewy light of matin hours, 
Nor the meridian pomp of summer's blaze, 
But at the close of dim autumnal days, 

When the sun's parting glance, through slanting 
showers, 

Sheds o'er thy rock-throned battlements and towers 
Such awful gleams as brighten o'er Decay's 
Prophetic cheek. At such a time, methinks, 

There breathes from thy lone courts and voiceless 
aisles 
A melancholy moral ; such as sinks 

On the lone traveller's heart amid the piles 
Of vast Persepolis on her mountain stand, 
Or Thebes half buried in the desert sand. 

Sir Aubrey De Vere. 



GLENGARRIFF. 

Gazing from each low bulwark of this bridge, 

How wonderful the contrast ! Dark as night, 

Here, amid cliffs and woods, with headlong might, 
The black stream whirls, through ferns and drooping 

sedge, 
'Neath twisted roots moss-brown, and weedy ledge, 

Gushing. Aloft, from yonder birch-clad height, 

Leaps into air a cataract, snow-white ; 
Falling to gulfs obscure. The mountain ridge, 
Like a gray Warder, guardian of the scene, 

Above the cloven gorge gloomily towers. 

O'er the dim woods a gathering tempest lowers ; 
Save where athwart the moist leaves' lucid green 

A sunbeam, glancing through disparted showers, 
Sparkles along the rill with diamond sheen ! 



12 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY 

A sun-burst on the bay ! Turn and behold ! 
The restless waves, resplendent in their glory, 
Sweep glittering past yon purpled promontory, 

Bright as Apollo's breastplate. Bathed in gold, 

Yon bastioned islet gleams. Thin mists are rolled, 
Translucent, through each glen. A mantle hoary 
Veils those peaked hills, shapely as e'er in story 

Delphic, or Alpine, or Vesuvian old, 

Minstrels have sung. From rock and headland proud 
The wild wood spreads its arms around the bay : 
The manifold mountain cones, now dark, now bright, 
Now seen, now lost, alternate from rich light 

To spectral shade ; and each dissolving cloud 
Reveals new mountains as it floats away. 

Sir Aubrey De Vere. 



SIBERIA. 

In Siberia's wastes 

The Ice-wind's breath 
Woundeth like the toothed steel. 
Lost Siberia doth reveal 

Only blight and death. 

Blight and death alone ! 

No summer sun shines ; 
Night is interblent with day ; 
In Siberia's wastes, alway 

The blood blackens, the heart pines. 

In Siberia's wastes 

No tears are shed, 
For they freeze within the brain. 
Nought is felt but dullest pain ; 

Pain acute, yet dead. 

Pain as in a dream, 
When years go by 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 13 

Funeral-paced, yet fugitive ; 
When man lives and doth not live, 
Doth not live — nor die. 

In Siberia's wastes 

Are sands and rocks. 
Nothing blooms of green or soft, 
But the snow-peaks rise aloft, 

And the gaunt ice-blocks. 

And the exile there 

Is one with those ; 
They are part, and he is part ! 
For the sands are in his heart, 

And the killing snows. 

Therefore, in those wastes 

None curse the Czar. 
Each man's tongue is cloven by 
The North Blast, who heweth nigh 

With sharp scimitar. 

And such doom each drees, 

Till, hunger-gnawn, 
And cold-slain, he at length sinks there ; 
Yet scarce more a corpse than ere 

His last breath was drawn. 

James Clarence Mangan. 



A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY. 

Take, proud ambition, take thy fill 

Of pleasures won through toil or crime ; 
Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill, 

And give thy name to future time : 
Philosophy, be keen to see 

Whate'er is just, or false, or vain, 
Take each thy meed, but, oh ! give me 

To range my mountain glens again ! 



14 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Pure was the breeze that fann'd my cheek, 

As o'er Knockmany's brow I went ; 
When every lonely dell could speak 

In airy music, vision-sent ; 
False world, I hate thy cares and thee, 

I hate the treacherous haunts of men ; 
Give back my early heart to me, 

Give back to me my mountain glen ! 

How light my youthful visions shone, 

When spann'd by Fancy's radiant form ; 
But now her glittering bow is gone, 

And leaves me but the cloud and storm. 
With wasted form, and cheek all pale — 

With heart long seared by grief and pain, 
Dunroe, I'll seek thy native vale, 

I'll tread my mountain glens again. 

Thy breeze once more may fan my blood, 

Thy valleys all are lovely still ; 
And I may stand, where oft I stood, 

In lonely musings on thy hill. 
But, ah ! the spell is gone ; — no art 

In crowded town, or native plain, 
Can teach a crush'd and breaking heart 

To pipe the song of youth again. 

William Carleton. 



SONNET. 

I have wept tears, and learnt, I fear, sad ways 
Of searching for a smile, and I can guess 
The secret of a wan mouth's droopingness, 

And know which eyes are they that waste their gaze 
On the hid grave of hope — yet ne'er the less 
My heart leaps up to utter thanks, and bless 

Our earth which bears sweet flowers, and the glad face 
Of these unwearied waters — thanks to them 



IRISH NATURE POETRY 1 5 

For brief, intense, bright moments when we see 
Our life stand clear in joy, we kiss the hem 

Of God's robe in a rapture, and are whole — 
On wind-swept hill-tops, by the mystery 

Of ocean on still morns, or when the soul 
Springs to the lark in a fine ecstasy. 

Edward Dowden. 



FOUR DUCKS ON A POND. 

Four ducks on a pond, 
A grass-bank beyond, 
A blue sky of spring, 
White clouds on the wing : 
What a little thing 
To remember for years — 
To remember with tears ! 

William Allingham. 



FOAM FLAKES. 

Gotten in the strife of waters, 
Twinkling little stars of foam, 

Restless, beautiful white daughters 
Of a father made to roam. 

Under sun and under moon, 
Under many a cloudy sky, 

To a low monotonous tune, 
Ye go glancing, dancing by. 

Fleeting shapes of rarest beauty, 

Poetry and life and joy, 
I would err in manhood's duty, 

If I passed you like a boy. 



l6 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY, 

I will lie down here and weave a 

Web of similes to you 
In the long rye-grass and cleave a 

Little lane to see you through. 

Shooting, quivering, restless flamelets 
On a restless hearth you seem ; 

Fairy-tenanted white hamlets, 
Rocked of earth-quakes on the stream ; 

Whitest clouds of bluest ether 
Prest in Eons' hands as snow, 

Thrown in multitudes together 
On the streams of earth below ; 

Forms as undefined as faces 

Seen in dreamland : ghosts of white, 

Flowers that grew in heavenly places, 
Fed on heavenly air and light. 

I would cast my lot with you, 
In your bundle would be bound, 

Shining maidens ! bid adieu 
To this barren, steady, ground, 

Dance with you amid the ridges 
And the madness of the stream, 

Sleep and kiss you where the midges 
On the silent water gleam. 

Standish O'Grady. 



FROM SHANNON TO SEA. 

The Shannon bore me to thy bosom wide : 
I wandered with it on its winding way 
By fields of yellow corn and new mown hay, 
And far blue hills that rose on either side, 
And low dark woods that fringed the ebbing tide : 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 1 7 

And ever as its waters neared the west, 

Out of the slumber of its broadening breast 
Faint momentary ripples rose and died : — 
And rose again before the breeze and grew 

To wavelets dancing in the noonday light, 
And these were changed to waves of ocean blue, 

And creek and headland faded from the sight, 
And oh ! at last— at last I floated free 
On the long rollers of the open sea. 

E. G. A. Holmes, 



ETERNAL VIGIL. 

Oh ! once again upon thy heaving breast 
I floated, like a seabird when it braves 
The shoreward onset of thy flowing waves 

And leaps triumphant on each rushing crest : 

Round me in dark magnificent unrest, 
The billows of the wild Atlantic rolled 
Far, far away, into the gates of gold, 

The sunlit portals of the stormy west : 

O never wearied ! In the hush of noon 
Thy billows break the paths of golden sleep : 

They break the dreamlike lustre of the moon : 
Earth knows the hours of darkness : thou dost keep 

Eternal vigil : still thy surges white 

Flash through the deepest gloom of starless night. 

E. G. A. Holmes. 



BIRDS. 



Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush 

Whistling bould in March, 
Before there's a primrose peepin' out, 

Or a wee red cone on the larch ; 
Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, 

An' the wind to come over the sea, 
But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud, 

He's never the bird for me. 



l8 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush 

After an April rain 
Slip from in-under the drippin' leaves, 

Wishful to sing again ; 
An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, 

An' loud from the top o' the tree, 
But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast, 

He's never the bird for me. 

Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo 

Callin' his mate in May, 
When one sweet thought is the whole of his life, 

An' he tells it the one sweet way. 
But my heart is sore at the cushadoo 

Filled with his own soft glee, 
Over an' over his ' me an' you ! ' 

He's never the bird for me. 

Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast 

Singin' his lone on a thorn, 
Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost, 

Brave wid his heart forlorn. 
The time is in dark November, 

An' no spring hopes has he : 
' Remember/ he sings, ' remember ! ' 

Ay, thon's the wee bird for me. 

Moira O'Neill. 



SHEEP AND LAMBS. 

All in the April morning, 

April airs were abroad ; 
Sheep with their little lambs 

Passed me by on the road. 

The sheep with their little lambs 
Passed me by on the road ; 

All in the April evening, 

I thought on the Lamb of God. 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 1 9 

The lambs were weary, and crying 

With a weak human cry, 
I thought on the Lamb of God, 

Going meekly to die. 

Up in the blue, blue mountains 

Dewy pastures are sweet ; 
Rest for the little bodies, 

Rest for the little feet. 

Rest for the Lamb of God 

Up on the hill-top green, 
Only a cross of shame 

Two stark crosses between. 

All in the April evening, 

April airs were abroad, 
I saw the sheep with their lambs, 

And thought on the Lamb of God. 

Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 



APRIL IN IRELAND. 

She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge, 

And all her flowers are snowdrops grown on the winter's 

edge : 
The golden looms of Tir na n' Og wove all the winter 

through 
Her gown of mist and raindrops, shot with a cloudy blue. 

Sunlight she holds in one hand, and rain she scatters 

after, 
And through the rainy twilight we hear her fitful laughter ; 
She shakes down on her flowers the snows less white than 

they, 
Then quickens with her kisses the folded " knots o' May." 



20 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

She seeks the summer-lover that never shall be hers, 
Fain for gold leaves of autumn she passes by the furze, 
Though buried gold it hideth : she scorns her sedgy 

crown, 
And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops 

down. 

Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tears, 
Yet hope she also holdeth, this daughter of the years — 
A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow's edge : 
She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge. 

Nora Hopper. 



GLORNY'S WEIR. 

At night when the world was sleepy and still, 
I'd wake, maybe, in the depth o' the dark, 
And think of the river below the hill, 
That flows so fast by the ruined old mill. 
Never a sound beside would I hear, 
But the water roaring at Glorny's Weir. 

I'd think to myself how day would come soon, 
The water-hens wake, and the wagtails stir, 
The kingfisher flash in the light of the noon 
From the willowy banks of Knockmaroon. 
But through the day you could scarcely hear 
The voice of the river at Glorny's Weir. 

I'd wake in the depth o' the dark, maybe, 
When the friendly voices of day were still ; 
But the river would lift its song for me, 
Down from the mountains off to the sea. 
And glad was I in the night to hear 
The roar of the waters at Glorny's Weir. 

Winifred M. Letts. 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 21 



THE NINE GREEN GLENS. 

Sorrow and strife be far away 
From these sweet vales and hills for aye ! 
O who would think of sword and death, 
That feels the living sea's sweet breath 
Blow through the nine green glens to-day ? 

Who sees the blue smoke skyward-curl'd 
From many a lowly glen hearthstone, 

Each with a pleasure and a pain, 
A pathos and romance its own ; 

Each little house a world ? 

Who that can hear the voice of morn, 
The whisper of the springing corn, 

Who understands the babbling rills, 

The weird wild music of the hills, 
And nameless voices heaven-born ? 

Sure am I that the Antrim glen 

Holds mysteries beyond our ken, 

And that there moves in wind and sea, 
And rock and stream, and weed and tree, 

A life not far from the life of men. 

Dear Mother Earth, I know within, 
That leaf and I are next of kin — 

The rowan high by blood is near, 

The primrose is a sister dear, 
Brother of mine the mountain whin. 

Now on the ocean shore I stand, 
The sea- worn cliff on either hand, 
And farther north no other land ; 

Only the long sea-heave and roll 

Between me and the Arctic pole. 

John Stevenson. 



22 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

LOUGH BRAY. 
I. 

A little lonely moorland lake, 

Its waters brown and cool and deep — 
The cliff, the hills behind it, make 

A picture for my heart to keep 

For rock and heather, wave and strand, 
Wore tints I never saw them wear ; 

The June sunshine was o'er the land ; 
Before, 'twas never half so fair ! 

The amber ripples sang all day, 

And singing spilled their crowns of white 

Upon the beach, in thin pale spray, 

That streaked the sober strand with light. 

The amber ripples sang their song, 
When suddenly from far o'erhead 

A lark's pure voice mixed with the throng 
Of lovely things about us spread. 

Some flowers were there, so near the brink 
Their shadows in the wave were thrown ; 

While mosses, green and grey and pink, 
Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone. 

And over all, the summer sky 

Shut out the town we left behind ; 

'Twas joy to stand in silence by, 

One bright chain linking mind to mind. 

Oh, little, lonely, mountain spot ! 

Your place within my heart will be, 
Apart from all Life's busy lot, 

A true, sweet, solemn memory. 

Rose Kavanagh. 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 23 

LOUGH BRAY. 
II. 

Now Memory, false, spendthrift Memory, 

Disloyal treasure-keeper of the soul, 
This vision change shall never wrong from thee, 

Nor wasteful years, effacing as they roll. 
O steel-blue lake, high cradled in the hills ! 

O sad waves, filled with little sobs and cries ! 
White glistening shingle, hiss of mountain rills, 

And granite-hearted walls blotting the skies, 
Shine, sob, gleam, gloom for ever ! Oh, in me 

Be what you are in Nature — a recess — 
To sadness dedicate, the mystery 

Withdrawn, afar, in the soul's wilderness. 
Still let my thoughts, leaving the worldly roar 
Like pilgrims, wander on thy haunted shore. 

Standish O' Grady. 



AN AWAKENING. 

O Spring will waken the heart of me 
With the rapture of blown violets ! 
When the green bud quickens on every tree, 
The Spring will waken the heart of me, 
And dews of honey will rain on the lea, 
Tangling the grasses in silver nets. 
Yes, Spring will waken the heart of me 
With the rapture of blown violets ! 

Alice Furlong. 



THE LITTLE WAVES OF BREFFNY. 

The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the 
sea, 
And there is traffic in it and many a horse and cart ; 
But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me, 
And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through 
my heart. 



24 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill, 
And there is glory in it and terror on the wind, 

But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, 
And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind. 

The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their 
way, 
Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal ; 
But the Little Waves of Breffny have drenched my heart 
in spray, 
And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through 
my soul. 

Eva Gore-Booth. 



ON GREAT SUGARLOAF. 

Where Sugarloaf with bare and ruinous wedge 
Cleaves the grey air to view the darkening sea, 
We stood on high, and heard the north wind flee, 

Through clouds storm-heavy fallen from ledge to ledge. 

Then sudden " Look !" we cried. The far black edge 
Of south horizon oped in sunbright glee, 
And a broad water shone, one moment free, 

Ere darkness veiled again the wavering sedge. 

Such is the Poet's inspiration, still 

Too evanescent ! coming but to go ; 
Such the great passions showing good in ill, 

Quick brightnesses, love-lights, too, burnt low ; 
And such man's life, which flashes Heaven's will — 
Between two glooms, a transitory glow. 

George A. Greene. 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 2$ 



A JUNE DAY. 

The very spirit of summer breathes to-day, 
Here where I sun me in a dreamy mood, 
And laps the sultry leas, and seems to brood 
Tenderly o'er those hazed hills far away. 
The air is fragrant with the new-mown hay, 
And drowsed with hum of myriad flies pursued 
By twittering martins. All yon hillside wood 
Is drowned in sunshine till its green looks grey. 
No scrap of cloud is in the still blue sky, 
Vaporous with heat, from which the foreground trees 
Stand out — each leaf cut sharp. The whetted scythe 
Makes rustic music for me as I lie, 
Watching the gambols of the children blythe, 
Drinking the season's sweetness to the lees. 

John Todhunter. 



THE SWIMMER. 

Who would linger idle, 

Dallying would lie, 

When wind and wave, a bridal 

Celebrating, fly ? 

Let him plunge among them, 

Who hath wooed enough, 

Flirted with them, sung them, 

In the salt sea-trough. 

He may win them, onward 

On a buoyant crest, 

Far to seaward, sunward, 

Ocean-borne to rest ! 

Wild wind will sing over him, 

And the free foam cover him, 

Swimming seaward, sunward, 

On a blithe sea-breast ! 



26 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

On a blithe sea-bosom 

Swims another too, 

Swims a live sea-blossom, 

A grey-winged sea-mew ! 

Grape-green all the waves are, 

By whose hurrying line 

Half of ships and caves are 

Buried under brine ; 

Supple, shifting ranges 

Lucent at the crest, 

With pearly surface-changes 

Never laid to rest ; 

Now a dipping gunwale 

Momently he sees, 

Now a fuming funnel, 

Or red flag in the breeze ; 

Arms flung open wide, 

Lip the laughing sea ; 

For playfellow, for bride, 

Claim her impetuously ! 

Triumphantly exult with all the free, 

Buoyant, bounding splendour of the sea ! 

And if while on the billow 

Wearily he lay, 

His awful wild playfellow 

Filled his mouth with spray, 

Reft him of his breath, 

To some far realms away 

He would float with Death ; 

Wild wind would sing over him, 

And the free foam over him, 

Waft him sleeping, sunward, 

All alone with Death ; 

In a realm of wondrous dreams 

And shadow-haunted ocean gleams. 

Roden Noel. 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 27 



SPRING, THE TRAVELLING MAN. 

Spring, the Travelling Man, has been here, 

Here in the glen ; 
He must have passed by in the grey of the dawn, 

When only the robin and wren 

Were awake, 
Watching out with their bright little eyes 

In the midst of the brake. 

The rabbits, maybe, heard him pass, 

Stepping light on the grass, 
Whistling careless and gay at the break o' the day. 

Then the blackthorn to give him delight 

Put on raiment of white : 

And, all for his sake, 

The gorse on the hill, where he rested an hour, 

Grew bright with a splendour of flower. 

My grief, that I was not aware 

Of himself being there ; 

It is I would have given my dower 

To have seen him set forth, 
Whistling careless and gay in the grey of the morn, 
By gorse bush and fraughan and thorn, 

On his way to the north. 

Winifred M. Letts. 



A FINE DAY ON LOUGH SWILLY 

Soft slept the beautiful autumn 

In the heart, on the face of the Lough — 

Its heart, whose pulses were hush'd 

Till you knew the life of the tide 

But by a wash on the shore. 

A whisper like whispering leaves 

In green abysses of forest — 

Its face, whose violet melted, 
Melted in roseate gold — 



28 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Roses and violets dying 
Into a tender mystery 
Of soft impalpable haze. 

Calm lay the woodlands of Fahan ; 
The summer was gone, yet it lay 
On the gently yellowing leaves, 

Like the beautiful poem, whose tones 
Are mute, whose words are forgot, 
But its music sleepeth for ever 
Within the music of thought. 
The robin sang from the ash, 
The sunset's pencils of gold 
No longer wrote their great lines 
On the boles of the odorous limes, 
Or bathed the tree-tops in glory, 

But a soft strange radiance there hung 

In splinters of tenderest light. 
And those who look'd from Glengollen 

Saw the purple wall of the Scalp, 
As if through an old church window 
Stain' d with a marvellous blue. 

From the snow-white shell strand of Inch 
You could not behold the white horses 
Lifting their glittering backs, 
Tossing their manes on Dunree, 
And the battle boom of Macammish 

Was lull'd in the delicate air. 
As in old pictures the smoke 
Goes up from Abraham's pyre, 
So the smoke went up from Rathmullen ; 
And beyond the trail of the smoke 
Was a great, deep, fiery abyss 

Of molten gold in the sky, 
And it set a far track up the waters 

Ablaze with gold like its own. 
Over the fire of the sea, 
Over the chasm in the sky, 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 20, 

My spirit, as by a bridge 
Of wonder, went wandering on, 
And lost its way in the heaven. 

William Alexander. 



FROST-MORNING. 

The morn is cold. A whiteness newly brought 

Lightly and loosely powders every place, 

The panes among yon trees that eastward face 

Flash rosy fire from the opposite dawning caught, — 

As the face flashes with a splendid thought, 

As the heart flashes with a touch of grace 

When heaven's light comes on ways we cannot trace, 

Unsought, yet lovelier than we ever sought. 

In the blue northern sky is a pale moon, 

Through whose thin texture something doth appear 

Like the dark shadow of a branchy tree — 

Fit morning for the prayers of one like me, 

Whose life is in midwinter, and must soon 

Come to the shortest day of all my year. 

William Alexander. 



THE WIND FROM THE WEST. 

Blow high, blow low, 

wind from the west : 
You come from the country 

1 love the best. 



O say have the lilies 
Yet lifted their heads 

Above the lake-water 
That ripples and spreads ? 



30 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY, 

Do the little sedges 
Still shake with delight 

And whisper together 
All through the night ? 

Have the mountains the purple 

I used to love, 
And peace about them, 

Around and above ? 



O wind from the west, 

Blow high, blow low, 
You come from the country 

I loved long ago. 

Ella Young. 



TO THE MOUNTAIN BEN BULBEN. 

I would I were a wide-winged hawk, beloved, 
With all the silence of thy peaks my own, 

Hovering above thy fragrant sun-steeped valleys 
Or on salt winds from height to headland blown. 

I would I were a little wind of night-time — 

All the great winds blow through the upper skies — 

But I would wander where through dew-starred myrtle, 

Like faint moon flames, thy secret thoughts arise. 

I would I were a falling star, beloved, 

One of a host exultant, swift and free ; 
Then would I burn the sundering leagues of darkness 

And, flaming to thy heart, be lost in thee. 

Moireen Fox. 



IRISH NATURE POETRY. 3 1 



ANACH. 



There is no peace now however things go, 
No peace where the ways of men ring loud, 

Save in a secret place that I know 
Hidden as in a cloud. 

All the high hills stand clustering round, 
Arched to protect it from trouble and noise, 

The great strong hills that sing without sound, 
And speak with no voice. 

There lies Caorog, the mute low lake, 

And Bun-na-freamha lying aloft, 
Peacefully sleeping, or even if they wake, 

Lapping low and soft. 

Upon the high hill-tops the heather may be crying, 
And over the hill-tops the voices of men are heard, 

But here only water lapping and sighing, 
Or the wail of a bird. 

Peace, peace and peace, from the inner heart of dream, 
More full of wisdom than speech can tell, 

Dropt like a veil round the show of things that seem 
With an invisible spell. 

Darrell Figgis. 



THE FAIRIES' LULLABY. 

[From the Gaelic.'] 

My mirth and merriment, soft and sweet art thou, 

Child of the race of Conn art thou ; 
My mirth and merriment, soft and sweet art thou, 

Of the race of Coll and Conn art thou. 

My smooth green rush, my laughter sweet, 

My little plant in the rocky cleft, 
Were it not for the spell on thy tiny feet, 

Thou wouldst not here be left, 
Not thou. 

Of the race of Coll and Conn art thou, 

My laughter, sweet and low art thou ; 
As you crow on my knee, 

I would lift you with me, 
Were it not for the mark that is on your feet, 
I would lift you away, 
and away, 
with me. 

Eleanor Hull. 



3 2 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 



THE FAIRY HOST. 

[From the Irish tale, " Laegaire mac Crimthainn's Visit to 
the Fairy Realm of Mag Mell."] 

Pure white the shields their arms upbear, 
With silver emblems rare o'ercast ; 

Amid blue glittering blades they go, 
The horns they blow are loud of blast. 

In well-instructed ranks of war 

Before their Chief they proudly pace ; 

Coerulean spears o'er every crest — 
A curly-tressed, pale-visaged race. 

Beneath the flame of their attack, 
Bare and black turns every coast ; 

With such a terror to the fight 

Flashes that mighty vengeful host. 

Small wonder that their strength is great, 

Since royal in estate are all, 
Each hero's head a lion's fell — 

A golden yellow mane lets fall. 

Comely and smooth their bodies are, 
Their eyes the starry blue eclipse , 

The pure white crystal of their teeth 
Laughs out beneath their thin red lips. 

33 o 



34 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Good are they at man-slaying feats, 
Melodious over meats and ale ; 

Of woven verse they wield the spell, 
At chess-craft they excel the Gael. 



THE SONG OF THE FAIRIES. 

(When they made the road across the bog of Lamrach for their 
King Midir.) 

[From the Irish. ,] 

Pile on the soil ; thrust on the soil : 
Red are the oxen around who toil : 
Heavy the troops that my words obey ; 
Heavy they seem, and yet men are they. 
Strongly, as piles, are the tree-trunks placed : 
Red are the wattles above them laced : 
Tired are your hands, and your glances slant ; 
One woman's winning this toil may grant ! 

Oxen are ye, but revenge shall see ; 

Men who are white shall your servants be ; 

Rushes from Teffa are cleared away ; 

Grief is the price that the man shall pay : 

Stones have been cleared from the rough Meath ground ; 

Where shall the gain or the harm be found ? 

Thrust it in hand ! Force it in hand ! 

Nobles this night as an ox-troop, stand ; 

Hard is the task that is asked, and who 

From the bridging of Lamrach shall gain, or rue ? 

A. H. Leahy. 



THE SEA-MAIDEN'S VENGEANCE. 

[From the Irish. Author Unknown.'] 

A great gallant king of yore 
Ruled shore and sea of Erinn ; 

Noble then all sections shone 
'Neath Rigdon's son of daring. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 35 

O'er the main of slow gray seas, 
With the breeze, lay his hoar way ; 

To behold his foreign friend 
He would wend north to Norway. 

Sped his splendid vessels three, 
When the sea calmed its motion ; 

Till they, sailing, sudden stop 
On the ridgy top of ocean. 

They refused to wend away — 

Fixed they lay, nowhere faring ! 
Then into the dark, dead deeps 

Ruad leaps, greatly daring. 

When he dived for their release, 
Through the sea's surging waters ; 

There he found the forms divine 
Of its nine beauteous daughters. 

These with clear soft accents said, 

It was they stay'd his sailing : 
That to leave nine maidens sweet 

Were a feat few prevail in. 

He with these nine nymphs remained, 
Where there reigned shade nor sadness ; 

'Neath the waters, where no wave 
Ever gave gloom to gladness. 

One of these his bride became, 
Still his fame forced him forward ; 

But he vow'd to greet her lips 

When his ships came from norward. 

Once on board he bade them sail 

Past the pale billows breaking ; 
And, with one bound, make their course 

To the Norse of quick speaking. 



36 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

O'er the salt sea then they rode, 

And abode, sweet the story, 
Till the seventh glad year ends 

With their friends, great in glory 

Ruad then ran out, once more, 
On the hoar salt sea faring ; 

Speeding forth his ships to reach 
To the bright far beach of Erinn. 

Warped and wrong the royal will — 
Solemn still is promise spoken : 

He should have gone to the maid 
As he said, nor pledge have broken. 

When the prince of Tuired's name 
Unto Muired's borders came, 

Around the shore — foul his fame ! 
A sound arose of sad acclaim. 

'Twas the sweet-voiced women's song 
Borne along in music's motion, 

Following Ruad's fleeing sail 
O'er wail of wave-worn ocean. 

Sailing, in bronze boat, they came — 
No plank-frame, made by mortal — 

Those nine maidens, fair and fierce, 
Till they pierce Ollbin's portal. 

Dire and dread the deed then done 
There by one, 'mid the water ; 

Ruad's son — her own — she slew, 
Vengeance knew, sweet in slaughter ! 

Then upraising high her hand, 
Forth she cast him on the strand ; 
Shrank the shore and shudd'ring foam 
From King Ruad's welcome home ! 

George Sigerson. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. $J 



SONG OF MAELDUIN, 

There are veils that lift, there are bars that fall, 
There are lights that beacon, and winds that call- 
Good-bye ! 
There are hurrying feet, and we dare not wait, 
For the hour is on us — the hour of Fate, 
The circling hour of the flaming gate — 
Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye ! 

Fair, fair they shine through the burning zone — 
The rainbow gleams of a world unknown ; 

Good-bye ! 
And oh ! to follow, to seek, to dare, 
When, step by step, in the evening air 
Floats down to -meet us the cloudy stair i 

Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye ! 

The cloudy stair of the Brig o' Dread 

Is the dizzy path that our feet must tread — 

Good-bye ! 
O children of time — O Nights and Days, 
That gather and wonder and stand and gaze, 
And wheeling stars in your lonely ways, 

Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye ! 

The music calls and the gates unclose, 
Onward and onward the wild way goes — 

Good-bye ! 
We die in the bliss of a great new birth, 
O fading phantoms of pain and mirth, 
O fading loves of the old green earth — 

Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye ! 

Thomas William Rolleston 



38 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



THE ISLAND OF SLEEP. 

Fled foam underneath us and round us, a wandering 
and milky smoke, 
High as the saddle-girth, covering away from our glance 
the tide ; 
And those that fled, and that followed, from the foam- 
pale distance broke ; 
The immortal desire of immortals we saw in their faces, 
and sighed. 

I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran, Sgeolan, 
Lomair, 
And never a song sang Niam, and over my finger-tips 
Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist- 
cold hair, 
And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of 
lips. 

Were we days long or hours long in riding, when rolled 
in a grisly peace, 
An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak ? 
And we stood on a sea's edge we saw not ; for whiter than 
new-washed fleece 
Fled foam underneath us and round us, a wandering 
and milky smoke 

And we rode on the plains of the sea's edge — the sea's 
edge barren and grey, 
Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the 
dripping trees, 
Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would 
hasten away 
Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan 
of the seas. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY 39 

But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their 
wrinkling bark ; 
Dropping — a murmurous dropping — old silence and 
that one sound ; 
For no live creature lived there, no weasels moved in the 
dark ; 
Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the 
ground. 

And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow 
night, 
For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning, the gleams of 
the world and the sun 
Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak leaf, 
the light, 
And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of 
the world was one. 

Till the horse gave a whinny ; for, cumbrous with stems 
of the hazel and oak, 
A valley flowed down from his hoofs, and there in the 
long grass lay, 
Under the starlight and shadow, a monstrous slumbering 
folk, 
Their naked and gleaming bodies poured out and heaped 
in the way. 

And by them were arrow and war-axe, arrow and shield 
and blade ; 
And dew-blanched horns, in whose hollow a child 
of three years old 
Could sleep on a couch of rushes, and all inwrought and 
inlaid, 
And more comely than man can make them with bronze 
and silver and gold. 

And each of the huge white creatures was huger than 
four score men ; 
The tops of their ears were feathered, their hands were 
the claws of birds ; 



40 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

And, shaking the plumes of the grasses and the leaves 
of the mural glen, 
The breathing came from those bodies, long-warless, 
grown whiter than curds. 

The wood was so spacious above them, that He who has 
stars for His flocks, 
Could fondle the leaves with His fingers, nor go from 
His dew-cumbered skies ; 
So long were they sleeping, the owls had builded their 
nests in their locks, 
Filling the fibrous dimness with long generations of 
eyes. 

And over the limbs and the valley the slow owls wandered 
and came, 
Now in a place of star- fire, and now in a shadow-place 
wide ; 
And the chief of the huge white creatures, his knees 
in his soft star-flame, 
Lay loose in a place of shadow ; we drew the reins by 
his side. 

Golden the nails of his bird-claws, flung loosely along the 
dim ground ; 
In one was a branch soft-shining, with bells more many 
than sighs, 
In midst of an old man's bosom ; owls ruffling and pacing 
around 
Sidled their bodies against him, filling the shade with 
their eyes 

And my gaze was thronged with the sleepers ; no, neither 
in house of a cann 
In a realm where the handsome are many, or in 
glamours by demons flung, 
Are faces alive with such beauty made known to thr- salt 
eye of man, 
Yet weary with passions that faded when the seven- 
fold seas were young. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 41 

And I gazed on the bell-branch, sleep's forbear, far sung 
by the Sennachies. 
I saw how those slumbered, grown weary, there camping 
in grasses deep, 
Of wars with the wide world and pacing the shores of the 
wandering seas, 
Laid hands on the bell-branch and swayed it, and fed 
of unhuman sleep. 

Snatching the horn of Niam, I blew a lingering note ; 
Came sound from those monstrous sleepers, a sound 
like the stirring of flies. 
He, shaking the fold of his lips, and heaving the pillar of 
his throat, 
Watched me with mournful wonder out of the wells of 
his eyes. 

I cried, " Come out of the shadow, cann of the fails of 
gold! 
And tell of your goodly household and the goodly works 
of your hands, 
That we may muse in the starlight and talk of the battles 
of old. 
Your questioner, Oisin, is worthy ; he comes from the 
Fenian lands." 

Half open his eyes were, and held me, dull with smoke of 
their dreams ; 
His lips moved slowly in answer, no answer out of them 
came ; 
Then he swayed in his fingers the bell-branch, slow 
dropping a sound in faint streams 
Softer than snow-flakes in April and piercing the marrow 
like flame. 

Wrapt in the wave of that music, with weariness more than 
of earth, 
The moil of my centuries filled me ; and gone like a 
sea-covered stone 



42 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Were the memories of the whole of my sorrow and the 
memories of the whole of my mirth, 
And a softness came from the starlight and filled me 
full to the bone. 

In the roots of the grasses, the sorrels, I laid my body as 
low ; 
And the pearl-pale Niam lay by me, her brow on the 
midst of my breast ; 
And the horse was gone in the distance, and years after 
years 'gan flow ; 
Square leaves of the ivy moved over us, binding us down 
to our rest. 

And, man of the many white croziers, a century there 
I forgot 
How the fetlocks drip blood in the battle, when the fallen 
on fallen lie rolled ; 
How the falconer follows the falcon in the weeds of the 
heron's plot ; 
And the names of the demons whose hammers made 
armour for Conhor of old. 

And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I 
forgot, 
That the spear-shaft is made out of ash-wood, the 
shield out of osier and hide ; 
How the hammers spring on the anvil, on the spear- 
head's burning spot ; 
How the slow blue-eyed oxen of Finn low sadly at 
evening tide. 

But in dreams, mild man of the croziers, driving the dust 
with their throngs, 
Moved round me, of seamen or landsmen, all who are 
winter tales ; 
Came by me the canns of the Red Branch, with roaring 
of laughter and songs, 
Or moved as they moved once, love-making or piercing 
the tempest with sails. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 43 

Came Blanid, McNessa, tall Fergus, who feastward of 
old time slunk, 
Cook Barach, the traitor ; and warward, the spittle on 
his beard never dry, 
Dark Balor, as old as a forest, car-borne, his mighty head 
sunk 
Helpless, men lifting the lids of his weary and death- 
making eye. 

And by me, in soft red raiment, the Fenians moved in 
loud streams, 
And Grania, walking and smiling, sewed with her 
needle of bone. 
So lived I and lived not, so wrought I and wrought not, 
with creatures of dreams, 
In a long iron sleep, as a fish in the water goes dumb 
as a stone. 

William Butler Yeats. 



ON THE WATERS OF MOYLE. 

{Translated from the Irish.} 

Time passed pleasantly with the Swan- Children, on the 
lake : in the day they conversed with their kindred and 
friends who had encamped around : at night they sang 
" slow, sweet, faiiy music," that made sorrow sleep. This 
term closed : they bade farewell to all, and went forth 
to the Waters of Moyle, where they suffered from icy 
storms. Fionnuala, covering her young brothers with 
her wings, sang : 

" Life is weary here, 
Great the snowing here, 
Night is dreary here, 
Bleak the blowing here." 

On a day, they saw a Fairy Cavalcade at the river Banna, 
and were told that Lir and their friends were celebrating 



44 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

the Feast of Age, happy but for their absence. Fion- 
nuala made this lay : 

Gay this night Lir's royal house, 
Chiefs carouse, mead flows amain ; 

Cold this night his children roam, 
Their chill home the icy main. 

For our mantles fair are found 

Feathers curving round our breasts — 

Often silken robes we had, 
Purple-clad we sat at feasts. 

For our viands here and wine — 
Bitter brine and pallid sands : 

Oft the hazel mead they served 
In carved vessels to our hands. 

Now our beds are the bare rock 
Smit with shock of heavy seas ; 

Often soft breast-down was spread 
For the bed of grateful ease. 

Though 'tis now, in frost, our toil 

To swim Moyle, with drooping wings ; 

Oft we rode as Royal Wards 
And our guards were sons of Kings 



THE RETURN OF THE CHILDREN OF LIR. 

In the extremity of their suffering, frozen in Erris 
sea, the brothers were inconsolable. Fionnuala asked 
them to believe in the true God, and they were relieved, 
and suffered no more. At the end of their final term, 
they arose and went very lightly and airily towards the 
city of their father. " And thus they found the place : 
void, desolate, with naught but the bare green paths 
and forests of nettles, without house, without fire, without 



IRISH WONDER POETRY, 45 

tribes. Then the Four drew close together, and thrice 
they raised on high the cry of wailing ; then Fionnuala 
spoke this lay " : 

Strange is all this place to me, 
No house, no home, no gladness ; 

As 'tis thus, this place to see — 
Alas, my heart, what sadness ! 

No bound, no sound, no ember, 
No group where princes gather ; 

Not thus do we remember 
Its old days with our father. 

No horn, no goblet dancing, 

No halls of light, each morrow : 

No youth, no proud steed prancing — 
All signs portend us sorrow ! 

All the void that here I see — 
Alas, my pain grows stronger ! 

Makes it, this night, clear to me 
Its loved lord lives no longer. 

City, where of old we knew 

All arts of joy exerted, 
What a fate of woe and rue — 

Thou art, this night, deserted ! 

Dark our doom and tragical — 
Condemned the waves to wander, 

Ne'er such ill fate magical 
Did mortal yet fall under. 

Now, the city populous 

Gives weeds and woods its favour : 

No man lives who'd welcome us 
To this, our homestead, ever. 

George Sigerson. 



46 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

THE SEA GOD'S ADDRESS TO BRAN. 

[From the Early Irish.] 

To Bran, as in his coracle he glides, 
A level of blue tides appears the deep ; 

When o'er my shadowy steeds I loose the rein, 
A flowery plain my chariot seems to sweep. 

Yea, what to Bran uplifted on the prancing 
Of his proud skiff is smooth blue-glancing sea, 

Beneath this burning chariot of two wheels 
A breadth of bloom delightful laughs for me ! 

Bran from his skiff-side views the joyous onset 
Of waves red-crested in the sunset glow ; 

I see, o'er all the Plain of Sports flower-bedded, 
Of crimson-headed flowers the faultless flow 

Sea-horses glisten in the ocean azure 

Far as Bran's eyes can measure ; but, to mine, 

Rivers a stream of honey bright are pouring 
For storing in my land beyond the brine. 

Brilliant the sea whereon thy skiff is guided, 
Dazzling the surf divided by thine hand ; 

Yellow and azure its white brightness vary ; 
It is indeed a light and airy land. 

The speckled salmon from the wave outleaping 
Where Bran goes sweeping through the ocean's wiles 

Are calves and lambs, not fishes of the water, 
Whose slaughter ne'er our path of peace defiles. 

And though thou see'st but one lone chariot rider 
A glider o'er the full-bloomed pleasant plain, 

From countless viewless steeds and chariots golden 
Thine eyes are holden by the mocking main. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 47 

Large is the plain, with happy hosts 'tis crowded ; 

Its colours in unclouded glory fall ; 
A stream of silver, stairs of golden splendour, 

A full, free welcome tender unto all. 

A joyous game, enchanting and delicious, 
Above the luscious wine is featly played, 

By men and gentle women set in session, 
Without transgression, in the leafy shade. 

Along a woodland's top, that greenly bridges 
Blue, airy ridges, has thy curragh swum ; 

Beneath thy very prow its shade impleaches 
With blushing peaches the empurpled plum — 

A wood where vagrant fruit and flower are wreathing 
With clusters of the fragrant-breathing vine, 

A wood of foliage rich and golden-raying, 
A wood without decaying or decline. 

We have been here since first the earth had being, 
Yet neither seeing sere old age nor death, 

And hence we fear not any base beginning 
Of mortal sinning shall cut short our breath. 

Then let not Bran relax his steadfast rowing ; 

The Land of Women shall be showing soon. 
Yea, Evna bright with every joyful blessing 

He shall be pressing ere the rise of moon. 



THE SPEAR OF KELTAR. 

The following nearly literal version from the ancient 
tale of the Bruidhin Da Derga gives an idea of the fabled 
weapons of the Irish heroes. The famous sword of Finn 
was the child of this terrible spear. 

What further sawest thou ? 

By the royal chair 
A couch I saw. Three heroes sat thereon, 



48 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

In their first grayness, they ; gray-dark their robes ; 

Gray-dark their swords, enormous, of an edge 

To slice the hair on water. He who sits 

The midmost of the three grasps with both hands 

The spear of fifty rivets ; and so sways 

And swings the weapon, which would else give forth 

Its shout of conflict, that he keeps it in ; 

Though thrice, essaying to escape his hands, 

It doubles, darting on him, heel to point. 

A cauldron at his feet, big as the vat 

Of a king's guest-house. In that vat, a pool 

Hideous to look upon, of liquor black. 

Therein he dips and cools the blade by times ; 

Else all its shaft would blaze, as though a fire 

Had wrapped the king-post of the house in flames. 

Resolve me now and say what 'twas I saw. 

Not hard to say. These champion warriors three 

Are Sencha, beauteous son of Olioll ; 

Dubthach, the fierce Ulidian addercop ; 

And Goibnen, son of Luignech ; and the spear 

In hands of Dubthach is the famous Lon 

Of Keltar, son of Uitechar, which erst 

Some wizard of the Tuath-da-Danaan brought 

To battle at Moy-Tura, and there lost, 

Found after. And these motions of the spear, 

And sudden sallies, hard to be restrained, 

Affect it oft as blood of enemies 

Is ripe for spilling. And a cauldron then, 

Full of witch-brewage, needs must be at hand, 

To quench it, when the homicidal act 

Is by its blade expected. Quench it not, — 

It blazes up, even in the holder's hand ; 

And through the holder, and the door-planks through, 

Flies forth to sate itself in massacre. 

W, M. Hennessy 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 49 

THE LEGEND OF FERGUS LEIDESON. 

[From an unknown Bard of the Tenth Century.] 

One day King Fergus, Leide Luthmar's son, 

Drove by Loch Rury ; and, his journey done, 

Slept in his chariot, wearied. While he slept, 

A troop of fairies o'er his cushion crept. 

And, first, his sharp, dread sword they filched away ; 

Then bore himself, feet forward, to the bay. 

He, with the chill touch, woke ; and, at a snatch, 

It fortuned him in either hand to catch 

A full grown sprite ; while, 'twixt his breast and arm, 

He pinned a youngling. They, in dire alarm. 

Writhed hard and squealed. He held the tighter. Then 

" Quarter ! " and " Ransom ! " cried the little men. 

" No quarter," he : " nor go ye hence alive, 

Unless ye gift me with the art to dive 

Long as I will — to walk at large, and breathe 

The seas, the lochs, the river floods beneath." 

" We will." He loosed them. Herbs of virtue they 

Placed in his ear-holes ; or, as others say, 

A hood of fairy texture o'er his head, 

Much like a cleric's cochal, drew, and said, 

" Wear this, and walk the deeps ; but well beware 

Thou enter nowise in Loch Rury there." 

Clad in his cowl, through many deeps he went, 

And saw their wonders ; but was not content 

Unless Loch Rury also to his eyes 

Revealed its inner under-mysteries. 

Thither he came, and plunged therein ; and there 

The Muirdris met him. Have you seen a pair 

Of blacksmith's bellows open out and close 

Alternate 'neath the hand of him that blows ? 

So swelled it, and so shrunk. The hideous sight 

Hung all his visage sideways with affright. 

He fled. He gained the bank. " How seems my 

cheer, 
O Mwena ? " " 111 ! " replied the charioteer. 



50 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

" But rest thee. Sleep thy wildness will compose." 

He slept. Swift Mwena to Emania goes : 

" Whom now for king, since Fergus' face awry 

By law demeans him of the sovereignty ? " 

" Hush ! " and his sages and physicians wise 

In earnest council sit, and this advise : 

" He knows not of his plight. To keep him so 

As he suspect not that he ought to know, — 

For so the mind be straight, and just awards 

Wait on the judgment, right-read law regards 

No mere distortion of the outward frame 

As blemish barring from the kingly name — 

And, knew he all the baleful fact you tell, 

An inward wrench might warp the mind as well, — 

Behooves it therefore all of idle tongue, 

Jesters, and women, and the witless young, 

Be from his presence kept. And when at morn 

He takes kis bath, behooves his bondmaid, Dorn, 

Muddy the water, lest perchance, he trace 

Lost kingship's token on his imaged face." 

Three years they kept him so : till on a day, 

Dorn with his face-bath ewer had made delay : 

And fretted Fergus, petulant and rash, 

A blow bestowed her of his horse-whip lash. 

Forth burst the woman's anger. " Thou a king ! 

Thou sit in council ! Thou adjudge a thing 

In court of law ! Thou, who no kingship can, 

Since all may see thou art a blemished man ! 

Thou wry-mouth ! " Fergus thereon slew the maid : 

And, to Loch Rury's brink in haste conveyed, 

Went in at Fertais. For a day and night 

Beneath the waves he rested out of sight. 

But all the Ultonians on the bank who stood 

Saw the loch boil and redden with the blood. 

When next at sunrise skies grew also red, 

He rose — and in his hand the Muirdris' head — 

Gone was the blemish. On his goodly face 

Each trait symmetric had resumed its place : 

And they who saw him marked in all his mien 

A king's composure, ample and serene. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY 5 1 

He smiled : he cast his trophy to the bank, 
Cried; " I survivor, Ulstermen ! " and sank. 

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 



DEIDRE DANCING. 

Naois. " Wilt thou not dance, daughter of heaven, to-day 
Free, at last free ? For here no moody raindrop 
Can reach thee, nor betrayer overpeer ; 
And none the self-delightful measure hear 
That thy soul moves to, quit of mortal ear." 

Full loth she pleads, yet cannot him resist 

And on the enmossed lights begins to dance. 
Away, away, far-floating like a mist, 
To fade into some leafy brilliance ; 
Then, smiling to the inward melodist, 

Over the printless turf with slow advance 
Of showery footsteps, makes she infinite 
That crowded glen. But quick, possess'd by strange 
Rapture, wider than dreams her motions range 
Till to a span the forests shrink and change. 

And in her eyes and glimmering arms she brings 
Hither all promise, — all the unlook'd-for boon 

Of rainbow' d life — all rare and speechless things 
That shine and swell under the brimming Moon. 

Who shall pluck tympans ? For what need of strings 
To waft her blood who is herself the tune — 

Herself the warm and breathing melody ? 

Art comes from the Land of Ever- Young ? O stay ! 

For his heart, after thee rising away, 

Falls dark and spirit-faint back to the clay. 

Griefs, like the yellow leaves by winter curl'd, 
Rise after her — long buried pangs arouse — 

About that bosom the grey forests whirl' d, 

And tempests with her beauty might espouse, — 



52 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

She rose with the green waters of the world 

And the winds heaved with her their depth of boughs. 
Then vague again as blows the beanfield's odour 
On the dark lap of air she chose to sink, 
As, winnowing with plumes, to the river-bank 
The pigeons from the cliff came down to drink. 

Sudden distraught, shading her eyes, she ceased, 
Listening, like bride whom cunning faery strain 

Forth from the trumpet-bruited spousal feast 
Steals. But she beckon'd soon, and quick, with pain, 

He ran, he craved at those, white feet the least 
Pardon ; nor, till he felt her hand again, 

Descend flake-soft, durst spy that she was weeping 

Or kneel with burning murmurs to atone. 

For sleep she wept. Long fasting had they gone 

And ridden from the breaking of the dawn. 

Herbert Trench. 



THE NOBLE LAY OF AILLINN. 

[After an Irish tale from the " Book of Leinster."] 

Prince Baile of Ulster rode out in the morn 

To meet his love at the ford ; 
And he loved her better than lands or life, 

And dearer than his sword. 

And she was Aillinn, fair as the sea, 

The Prince of Leinster's daughter, 
And she longed for him more than a wounded man, 

Who sees death, longs for water. 

They sent a message each to each : 

" Oh, meet me near or far ; " 
And the ford divided the kingdoms two, 

And the kings were both at war. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 53 

And the Prince came first to the water's pass, 

And oh, he thought no ill : 
When he saw with pain a great grey man 

Come striding o'er the hill. 

His cloak was the ragged thunder-cloud, 

And his cap the whirling snow, 
And his eyes were the lightning in the storm, 

And his horn he 'gan to blow. 

" What news, what news, thou great grey man ? 

I fear 'tis ill with me." 
" Oh, Aillinn is dead, and her lips are cold, 

And she died for loving thee." 

And he looked and saw no more the man, 

But a trail of driving rain. 
" Woe ! woe ! " he cried, and took his sword 

And drave his heart in twain. 

And out of his blood burst forth a spring, 

And a yew-tree out of his breast, 
And it grew so deep, and it grew so high, 

The doves came there to rest. 

But Aillinn was coming to keep her tryst, 

The hour her lover fell ; 
And she rode as fast as the western wind 

Across the heathery hill. 

Behind her flew her loosened hair, 

Her happy heart did beat ; 
When she was 'ware of a cloud of storm 

Came driving down the street. 

And out of it stepped a great grey man, 

And his cap was peaked with snow ; 
The fire of death was in his eyes, 

And he 'gan his horn to blow. 



54 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

" What news, what news, thou great grey man ? 

And is it ill to me ? " 
" Oh, Bailie the Prince is dead at the ford, 

And he died for loving thee." 

Pale, pale she grew, and two large tears 

Dropped down like heavy rain, 
And she fell to earth with a woeful cry, 

For she broke her heart in twain. 

And out of her tears two fountains rose 

That watered all the ground, 
And out of her heart an apple-tree grew 

That heard the water's sound. 

Oh, woe were the kings, and woe were the queens, 

And woe were the people all ; 
And the poets sang their love and their death 

In cottage and in hall. 

And the men of Ulster a tablet made 

From the wood of Baile's tree, 
And the men of Leinster did the like 

Of Aillinn's apple-tree. 

And on the one the poets wrote 

The lover-tales of Leinster, 
And on the other all the deeds 

That lover wrought in Ulster. 

Now when a hundred years had gone 

The King of all the land 
Kept feast at Tara, and he bade 

His poets sing a strand. 

They sang the sweet unhappy tale, 

The noble Aillinn's lay. 
" Go, bring the tablets," cried the King, 

" For I have wept to-day." 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 55 

But when he held in his right hand 

The wood of Bailie's tree 
And in his left the tablet smooth 

From Aillinn's apple-tree, 

The lovers in the wood who kept 

Love-longing ever true, 
Knew one another, and at once 

From the hands of the King they flew 

As ivy to the oak they clung, 

Their kiss no man could sever — 
Oh, joy for lovers parted long 

To meet, at last, for ever ! 

Stopford A. Brooke. 



THE LOVE-TALKER. 

I met the Love-Talker one eve in the glen, 
He was handsomer than any of our handsome young men, 
His eyes were blacker than the sloe, his voice sweeter far 
Than the crooning of old Kevin's pipes beyond in Cool- 
nagar. 

I was bound for the milking with a heart fair and free — 
My grief ! my grief ! that bitter hour drained the life 

from me ; 
I thought him human lover, though his lips on mine were 

cold, 
And the breath of death blew keen on me within his hold. 

I know not what way he came, no shadow fell behind, 
But all the sighing rushes swayed beneath a faery wind, 
The thrush ceased its singing, a mist crept about, 
We two clung together — with the world shut out 



56 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Beyond the ghostly mist I could hear my cattle low, 
The little cow from Ballina, clean as driven snow, 
The dun cow from Kerry, the roan from Inisheer, 
Oh, pitiful their calling — and his whispers in my ear ! 

His eyes were a fire ; his words were a snare ; 
I cried my mother's name, but no help was there ; 
I made the blessed Sign ; then he gave a dreary moan, 
A wisp of cloud went floating by, and I stood alone. 

Running ever through my head, is an old-time rune — 
" Who meets the Love-Talker must weave her shroud 

soon." 
My mother's face is furrowed with the salt tears that fall, 
But the kind eyes of my father are the saddest sight of all 

I have spun the fleecy lint, and now my wheel is still, 
The linen length is woven for my shroud fine and chill, 
I shall stretch me on the bed where a happy maid I lay — 
Pray for the soul of Maire Og at dawning of the day i 

Ethna Carbery. 



TO THE LEANAN SIDHE. 

Where is thy lovely perilous abode ? 

In what strange phantom-land 
Glimmer the fairy turrets whereto rode 

The ill-starred poet band ? 

Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home, 

The sweetest singer there, 
Stealing on winged steed across the foam 

Athrough the moonlit air ? 

And by the gloomy peaks of Erigal, 

Haunted by storm and cloud, 
Wing past, and to thy lover there let fall 

His singing robe and shroud ? 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 57 

Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneath 

The red stems of the pine, 
And sunbeams strike thro' shadow, dost thou breathe 

The word that makes him thine ? 

Or, is thy palace entered thro' some cliff 

When radiant tides are full, 
And round thy lover's wandering, starlit skiff 

Coil in luxurious lull ? 

And would he, entering on the brimming flood, 

See caverns vast in height, 
And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud, 

Glow in long lanes of light. 

And there, the pearl of that great glittering shell, 

Trembling, behold thee lone, 
Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell, 

Now still upon thy throne ? 

Thy beauty ! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro' 

Then melt as in a dream ; 
The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue 

And all that Be and Seem ! 

Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme 

That ancient Nature sings, 
That keeps the stars in cadence for all time, 

And echoes thro' all things ! 

Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams, 

Thy light makes all lights dim ; 
An aching solitude from henceforth seems 

The world of men to him. 

Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar, 

He follows with delight, 
Shutting behind him Life's last gloomy door, 

And fares into the Night. 

Thomas Boyd. 



58 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



THE KING'S SON. 

Who rideth through the driving rain 

At such a headlong speed ? 
Naked and pale he rides amain 

Upon a naked steed. 

Nor hollow nor height his going bars, 

His wet steed shines like silk, 
His head is golden to the stars 

And his limbs are white as milk. 

But, lo, he dwindles as the light 

That lifts from a black mere, 
And, as the fair youth wanes from sight, 

The steed grows mightier. 

What wizard by yon holy tree 

Mutters unto the sky 
Where Macha's flame-to ngued horses flee 

On hoofs of thunder by ? 

Ah, 'tis not holy so to ban 

The youth of kingly seed : 
Ah ! woe, the wasting of a man 

Who changes to a steed ! 

Nightly upon the Plain of Kings, 

When Macha's day is nigh, 
He gallops ; and the dark wind brings 

His lonely human cry. 

Thomas Boyd. 



LITTLE SISTER 

Little sister, whom the Fay 
Hides away within his Doon, 

Deep below yon tufted fern, 
Oh, list and learn my magic tune ! 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 59 

Long ago, when snared like thee 

By the Shee, my harp and I 
O'er them wove the slumber spell, 

Warbling well its lullaby. 

Till with dreamy smiles they sank, 
Rank on rank before the strain ; 

Then I rose from out the rath 
And found my path to earth again. 

Little sister, to my woe, 

Hid below among the Shee, 
List, and learn my magic tune, 

That it full soon may succour thee. 



THE FAIRY THORN. 

[Ail Ulster Ballad.] 

" Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning wheel ; 

For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep ; 
Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a Highland-reel 

Around the fairy thorn on the steep." 

At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried, 
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green ; 

And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, 
The fairest of the four, I ween. 

They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, 
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare ; 

The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave, 
And the crags in the ghostly air : 

And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go, 

The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless 
way, 
Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty 
grow 
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey. 



60 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, 
Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee ; 

The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head grey and dim 
In ruddy kisses sweet to see. 

The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row, 
Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem, 

And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go, 
Oh, never caroll'd bird like them ! 

But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze 
That drinks away their voices in echoless repose, 

And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted braes, 
And dreamier the gloaming grows. 

And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky 
When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw, 

Are hush'd the maiden's voices, as cowering down they lie 
In the flutter of their sudden awe. 

For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath, 
And from the mountain-ashes and the old whitethorn 
between, 
A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings 
breathe, 
And they sink down together on the green. 

They sink together silent, and stealing side by side, 
They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks 
so fair, 

Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, 
For their shrinking necks again are bare. 

Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads together 
bow'd, 

Soft o'er their bosom's beating — the only human sound, 
They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, 

Like a river in the air, gliding round. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 6l 

No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say, 

But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three — 

For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, 
By whom they dare not look to see. 

They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, 
And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws ; 

They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold, 
But they may not look to see the cause : 

For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies 
Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze ; 

And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes, 
Or their limbs from the cold ground raise, 

Till out of night the earth has roll'd her dewy side, 
With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below ; 

When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide, 
The maidens' trance dissolveth so. 

Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, 
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain — 

They pined away and died within the year and day, 
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again. 

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 



ON ALL SOULS' NIGHT. 

mother, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair 

and white board spread, 

1 prayed for his coming to our kind Lady when Death's 

sad doors would let out the dead ; 
A strange wind rattled the window-pane, and down the 

lane a dog howled on, 
I called his name and the candle flame burnt dim, pressed 

a hand the door-latch upon. 



62 BQOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Deelish ! Deelish ! my woe forever that I could not sever 

coward flesh from fear. 
I called his name and the pale Ghost came ; but I was 

afraid to meet my dear. 

mother, mother, in tears I checked the sad hours past 

of the year that's o'er, 
Till by God's grace I might see his face and hear the 

sound of his voice once more ; 
The chair I set from the cold and wet, he took when he 

came from unknown skies 
Of the land of the dead, on my bent brown head I felt 

the reproach of his saddened eyes ; 

1 closed my lids on my heart's desire, crouched by the 

fire, my voice was dumb. 
At my clean-swept hearth he had no mirth, and at my 

table he broke no crumb. 
Deelish ! Deelish ! my woe forever that I could not 

sever coward flesh from fear. 
His chair put aside when the young cock cried, and I 
was afraid to meet my dear. 

Dora Sigerson. 



THE SHIP FROM TIRNANOGE. 

We two were alone by the sea : 
I, and the man I loved with me. 

Our eyes were glad, and our hearts beat high, 
As we sat by the sea, my love and I ; 

Till we looked afar, and saw a ship : 
Then white, white grew his ruddy lip ; 

And strange, strange grew his eyes that saw 
Into the heart of some deep awe. 

His hand that held this hand of mine 
Never a token gave nor sign ; 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 63 

But lay as a babe's that is just dead : 
And I sat still and wondered. 

Nearer and nearer the white ship drew : 
Who was her captain, whence her crew ? 

Her crew were men and women bright, 
With fair eyes full of unknown light. 

From far-off Tirnanoge they came, 
Where they had heard my true-love's name : 

The name the birds and waves had sung, 
Of one who must bide for ever young. 

Strong white arms let down the boat ; 
Song rose up from many a throat. 

Glad they were who soon had won 
A lovely new companion. 

They lowered the boat and they entered her ; 
And rowed to meet their passenger : 

Rowed to the tune of a music strange, 
That told of joy at the heart of change. 

I heard her keel on the pebbles gride, 
And she waited there till the turn o' the tide ; 

While they kept singing, singing clear, 
A song that was passing sweet to hear : 

A song that bound me in a chain 
Away from any thought of pain. 

They paused at last in their sweet singing, 
And I saw their hands were beckoning, 



64 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY 

In a rhythm as sweet as the stilled songs, 
That passed to the air from their silent tongues. 

He rose and kissed me on the face, 
And left me sitting in my place, 

Quiet, quiet, life and limb, 

I, who was not called like him. 

Into the boat he entered grave, 

And the tide turned, and she rode the wave ; 

And I saw him sitting at the prow, 
With a rose-light about his brow. 

The boat drew nigh the ship again, 
With all its lovely women and men. 

I saw him enter the ship and stand, 
His hand held in the captain's hand. 

The captain wonderful to see, 

With eyes a-change in depth and blee ; 

A-change, a-change for ever and aye, 
Blue, and purple, and black, and gray ; 

And hair like the weed that finds a home 
In the heart of a trail of white sea-foam. 

I wist he was no mortal man, 
But he whose name is Manannan. 

They sailed away, they sailed away, 
Out of the day, into the day. 

Emily Hickey. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 65 



THE FAIRIES' PASSAGE. 

Tap, tap, tap, rap ! " Get up, gaffer Ferryman," 

" Eh ! Who is there ? " The clock strikes three. 

" Get up, do, gaffer ! You are the very man 

We have been long, long, longing to see." 

The ferryman rises, growling and grumbling, 

And goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling, and tumbling 

Over the wares on his way to the door. 

But he sees no more 

Than he saw before ; 

Till a voice is heard ; " O Ferryman dear ! 

Here we are waiting, all of us, here. 

We are a wee, wee colony, we ; 

Some two hundred in all, or three. 

Ferry us over the river Lee, 

Ere dawn of day, 

And we will pay 

The most we may 

In our own wee way ! " 

" Who are you ? Whence came you ? 

What place are you going to ? " 

" Oh, we have dwelt over-long in this land ; 

The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too ! 

Nothing at all but they now understand. 

We are daily vanishing under the thunder 

Of some huge engine or iron wonder ; 

That iron, ah ! it has entered our souls." 

" Your souls ? O gholes, 

You queer little drolls, 

Do you mean . . , ? " " Good gaffer, do aid us with 

speed, 
For our time, like our stature, is short indeed ! 
And a very long way we have to go ; 
Eight or ten thousand miles or so, 
Hither and thither, and to and fro, 
With our pots and pans 
And little gold cans ; 



66 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

But our light caravans 
Run swifter than man's." 

" Well, well, you may come," said the ferryman affably ; 

" Patrick, turn out, and get ready the barge." 

Then again to the little folk ; " Tho' you seem laughably 

Small, I don't mind, if your coppers be large." 

Oh, dear, what a rushing, what pushing, what crushing, 

(The watermen making vain efforts at hushing 

The hubbub the while), there followed these words. 

What clapping of boards, 

What strapping of cords, 

What stowing away of children and wives, 

And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and knives, 

Till all had safely got into the boat, 

And the ferryman, clad in his tip-top coat, 

And his wee little fairies were safely afloat! 

Then ding, ding, ding, 

And kling, kling, kling, 

How the coppers did ring 

In the tin pitcherling. 

Off, then, went the boat, at first very pleasantly, 

Smoothly, and so forth ; but after a while 

It swayed and it s wagged this and that way, and presently 

Chest after chest, and pile after pile, 

Of the little folk's goods began tossing and rolling, 

And pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling. 

O Mab ! if the hubbub were great before, 

It was now some two or three million times more. 

Crash ! went the wee crocks and the clocks ; and the 

locks 
Of each little wee box were stove in by hard knocks ; 
And then there were oaths, and prayers, and cries : 
" Take care ! " — " See there !" — " O, dear, my eyes !" 
" I am killed ! " — "I am drowned ! " — with groans and 

sighs, 
Till to land they drew. 
"Yeo-ho! Pull to! 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 67 

Tiller-rope thro' and thro ! " 

And all's right anew. 

" Now jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities. 

(Eh, what is this ? . . . where are they, at all ? 

Where are they, and where are their tiny commodities ? 

Well, as I live . . .) He looks blank as a wall, 

Poor ferryman ! Round him and round him he gazes, 

But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes 

Of utter bewilderment. All, all are gone, 

And he stands alone, 

Like a statue of stone, 

In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer, 

And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear, 

With other odd sounds : " Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Fol lol ! zidzizzle ! quee quee ! bah ! bah ! 

Fizzigig-giggidy ! pshee ! sha sha ! " 

"O ye thieves, ye thieves, ye rascally thieves ! " 

The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher, 

And there, alas, to his horror perceives 

That the little folk's mode of making him richer 

Has been to pay him with withered leaves ! 

James Clarence Mangan. 



THE FAIRY FIDDLER. 

'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling, 

By weedy ways forlorn : 
I make the blackbird's music 

Ere in his breast 'tis born : 
The sleeping larks I waken 

'Twixt the midnight and the morn. 

No man alive has seen me, 

But women hear me play 
Sometimes at the door or window, 

Fiddling the souls away, — 
The child's soul and the colleen's 

Out of the covering clay. 



68 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

None of my fairy kinsmen 
Make music with me now ; 

Alone the raths I wander 

Or ride the whitethorn bough ; 

But the wild swans they know me, 
And the horse that draws the plough 

Nora Hopper. 



THE FAIRIES. 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 
We daren't go a-hunting 

For fear of little men ; 
Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together ; 
Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's feather ! 

Down along the rocky shore 

Some make their home, 
They live on crispy pancakes 

Of yellow tide-foam ; 
Some in the reeds 

Of the black mountain lake, 
With frogs for their watch- dogs, 

All night awake. 

High on the hill-top 

The old King sits ; 
He is now so old and gray 

He's nigh lost his wits. 
With a bridge of white mist 

Columbkill he crosses, 
On his stately journeys 

From Slieveleague to Rosses ; 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 69 

Or going up with music 

On cold starry nights, 
To sup with the Queen 

Of the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little Bridget 

For seven years long ; 
When she came down again 

Her friends were all gone. 
They took her lightly back, 

Between the night and morrow, 
They thought that she was fast asleep, 

But she was dead with sorrow. 
They have kept her ever since 

Deep within the lake, 
On a bed of flag-leaves, 

Watching till she wake. 

By the craggy hill-side, 

Through the mosses bare, 
They have planted thorn-trees 

For pleasure here and there. 
Is any man so daring 

As dig them up in spite, 
He shall find their sharpest thorns 

In his bed at night. 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 
We daren't go a-hunting 

For fear of little men ; 
Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together ; 
Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's feather ! 

William Allingham. 



JO BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



HY-BRASAIL. 



On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, 
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell ; 
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, 
And they called it Hy-Brasail, the isle of the blest. 
From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim, 
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim : 
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, 
And it looked like an Eden, away, far away ! 

A peasant, who heard of the wonderful tale, 
In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail ; 
From Ara, the holy, he turned to the West, 
For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest. 
He heard not the voices that called from the shore — 
He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar ; 
Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day, 
And he sped to Hy-Brasail, away, far away. 

Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle, 
O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile ; 
Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore 
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before ; 
Lone evening came down on the wan'derer's track, 
And to Ara again he looked timidly back : 
O ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, 
Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away ! 

Rash dreamer, return ! O ye winds of the main, 
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. 
Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss 
To barter thy calm life of labour and peace. 
The warning of reason was spoken in vain, 
He never revisited Ara again ! 

Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, 
And he died on the waters, away far away. 

Gerald Griffin. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. JI 

THE HEATHER GLEN. 

There blooms a bonnie flower, 

Upon the heather glen ; 
Tho' bright in sun, in shower 

'Tis just as bright again. 
I never can pass by it, 
I never dar' go nigh it, 
My heart it won't be quiet, 

Up the heather glen. 

Sing, O, the blooming heather ! 

O, the heather glen ! 
Where fairest fairies gather 

To lure in mortal men. 
I never can pass by it, 
I never dar' go nigh it. 
My heart it won't be quiet, 

Up the heather glen. 

There sings a bonnie linnet, 

Up the heather glen, 
The voice has magic in it 

Too sweet for mortal men ! 
It brings joy doon before us, 
Wi' winsome, mellow chorus, 
But flies far, too far, o'er us, 

Up the heather glen, 

Sing, O ! the blooming heather, etc. 

O, might I pull the flower 

That's blooming in that glen, 
Nae sorrows that could lower 

Would make me sad again ! 
And might I catch that linnet, 
My heart — my hope are in it ! 
O, heaven itself I'd win it, 

Up the heather glen ! 

Sing, O ! the blooming heather, &c. 

George Sigerson. 



^ 2 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



THE WIND AMONG THE REEDS. 

Mavrone, Mavrone, the wind among the reeds. 

It calls and cries, and will not let me be ; 
And all its cry is of forgotten deeds. 

When men were loved of all the Daoine-Sidhe. 

O Shee that have forgotten how to love, 
And Shee that have forgotten how to hate. 

Asleep 'neath quicken boughs that no winds move, 
Come back to us ere yet it be too late. 

Pipe to us once again, lest we forget 

What piping means, till all the Silver Spears 

Be wild with gusty music, such as met 
Carolan once, amid the dusty years. 

Dance in your rings again : the yellow weeds 
You used to ride so far, mount as of old — 

Play hide-and-seek with wind among the reeds, 
And pay your scores again with fairy gold. 

Nora Hopper 



THE CHANGELING. 

He stood alone outside the fairy hill, 

Beneath the horned moon, 
And heard below the grasses, gay and shrill, 

An elfin tune. 

There came to him a memory faint and far 
Of things he once had known — 

A square of window and a twinkling star, 
A warm hearth-stone. 

He set soft feet upon the turfy path, 

Crushing the scented thyme ; 
He turned his back upon the fairy rath, 

The hidden chime. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 73 

He passed the swaying foxgloves by the wall, 

And left the stream behind ; 
A startled rabbit through the brackens tall 

Fled like the wind. 

Drawn by a baby thought of mother-eyes, 

He pattered down the lane 
To the low house, and standing tip-toe- wise, 

Peeped through the pane. 

A woman hushed a wakeful child to sleep 

Beside a dying fire. 
" Husho, husho," she crooned, " and do not weep, 

O heart's desire." 

" Lie still and sleep, nor fear the fairies' wile ; 

No harm shall come to thee." 
Outside, her baby saw the changeling smile 

Upon her knee. 

With dimpled hand he beat upon the glass. 

The woman drew the blind ; 
" Husho, my child, dost hear the fairies pass 

Upon the wind ? " 

Ruth Duffin 



THE FAERY LOVER. 

It was by yonder thorn I saw the faery host ; 

(O low night wind, O wind of the west !) 
My love rode by, there was gold upon his brow, 

And since that hour I can neither eat nor rest. 

I dare not pray lest I should forget his face 

(O black north wind blowing cold beneath the sky !) 

His face and his eyes shine between me and the sun : 
If I may not be with him I would rather die. 



74 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

They tell me I am cursed and I will lose my soul, 
(O red wind shrieking o'er the thorn-grown dun !) 

But he is my love and I go to him to-night, 
He will ride when the thorn glistens white beneath 
the moon. 

He will call my name and lift me to his breast, 
(Blow soft O wind 'neath the stars of the south !) 

I care not for heaven and I fear not hell 

If I have but the kisses of his proud red mouth. 

Moireen Fox. 



THE LEPRACAUN OR FAIRY SHOEMAKER. 

Little Cowboy, what have you heard, 

Up on the lonely rath's green mound ? 
Only the plaintive yellow bird 

Sighing in sultry fields around, 
Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee ! — 
Only the grasshopper and the bee ? — 

" Tip-tap, rip-rap, 

Tick-a-tack-too ! 
Scarlet leather, sewn together, 
This will make a shoe. 
Left, right, pull it tight ; 
Summer days are warm ; 
Underground in winter, 
Laughing at the storm ! " 
Lay your ear close to the hill. 
Do you not catch the tiny clamour, 
Busy click of an elfin hammer. 
Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill 
As he merrily plies his trade ? 

He's a span 

And a quarter in height, 
Get him in sight, hold him tight, 

And you're a made 
Man! 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. 75 

You watch your cattle the summerday, 
Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay ; 
How would you like to roll in your carriage, 
Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage ? 
Seize the shoemaker — then you may ! 

" Big boots a-hunting, 

Sandals in the hall, 

White for a wedding-feast, 

Pink for a ball. 

This way, that way, 

So we make a shoe ; 

Getting rich every stitch, 

Tick-tack-too ! " 
Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocks 

This keen miser-fairy hath, 
Hid in mountains, woods and rocks, 

Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath, 
And where the cormorants build ; 

From times of old 

Guarded by him ; 

Each of them fiU'd 

Full to the brim 

With gold ! 

I caught him at work one day, myself, 

In the castle-ditch where fox-glove grows, — 
A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf, 
Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose, 
Silver buckles to his hose, 
Leather apron — shoe in his lap — 

' Rip-rap, tip-tap, 

Tick-tack-too ! 

(A grasshopper on my cap ! 

Away the moth flew !) 

Buskins for a fairy prince, 

Brogues for his son — 

Pay me well, pay me well, 

When the job is done ! " 
The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt. 
I stared at him ; he stared at me ; 



j6 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

" Servant, Sir ! " " Humph ! " says he, 
And pull'd a snuff-box out. 
He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased, 
The queer little Lepracaun ; 
Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace, — 
Pouf ! he flung the dust in my face, 
And while I sneezed, 
Was gone ! 

William Allingham. 



FAIRY SONG. 

When daisies close and poppies nod, 
And meadow grass to earth is laid, 

And fairies dance on moonlit sod, 
Or quaff of dew-drops in the shade, 

Come, gentle dreams, in velvet shod, 
And foot it round each sleeping maid. 

Come softly, hither, dove- winged flock, 
And on their pillows make your nest, 

And, light as down from puff-ball clock, 
Let kisses on their eyes be prest ; 

Then sit upon the couch and rock 
Each tender little heart to rest. 



Elinor Sweetman 



THE OTHERS. 

From our hidden places 

By a secret path, 
We come in the moonlight 

To the side of the green rath. 



IRISH WONDER POETRY. JJ 

There the night through 

We take our pleasure, 
Dancing to such a measure 

As earth never knew. 

To song and dance 

And lilt without a name, 
So sweetly breathed 

'Twould put a bird to shame. 

And many a young maiden 

Is there, of mortal birth, 
Her young eyes laden 

With dreams of earth. 

And many a youth entranced 

Moves slowly in the wildered round, 

His brave lost feet enchanted, 
With the rhythm of faery sound. 

Music so forest wild 

And piercing sweet would bring 
Silence on blackbirds singing 

Their best in the ear of spring. 

And now they pause in their dancing, 

And look with troubled eyes, 
Earth straying children 

With sudden memory wise. 

They pause, and their eyes in the moonlight 

With fairy wisdom cold, 
Grow dim and a thought goes fluttering 

In the hearts no longer old. 

And then the dream forsakes them, 

And sighing, they turn anew, 
As the whispering music takes them, 

To the dance of the elfin crew. 



y8 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

O many a thrush and a blackbird 
Would fall to the dewy ground, 

And pine away in silence 
For envy of such a sound. 

So the night through 

In our sad pleasure, 
We dance to many a measure, 

That earth never knew. 



Seumas O' Sullivan. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 



79 



WHAT IS LOVE? 

[From the Early Irish.] 
A love all-commanding, all-withstanding 

Through a year is my love ; 
A grief darkly hiding, starkly biding 

Without let or remove ; 
Of strength a sharp straining, past sustaining 

Wheresoever I rove, 
A force still extending without ending 

Before and around and above. 

Of Heaven 'tis the brightest amazement, 

The blackest abasement of Hell, 
A struggle for breath with a spectre, 

In nectar a choking to death ; 
'Tis a race with Heaven's lightning and thunder.. 

Then Champion Feats under Moyle's water ; 
'Tis pursuing the cuckoo, the wooing 

Of Echo, the Rock's airy daughter. 

Till my red lips turn ashen, 

My light limbs grow leaden, 
My heart loses motion, 

In Death my eyes deaden, 
So is my love and my passion, 
So is my ceaseless devotion 
To her to whom I gave them, 
To her who will not have them. 



80 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 



THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE. 

[ Translated from a Tenth Century Poem.] 

[In the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King 
Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the Hy Fidgenti, 
who had come to the help of Guare, with seventeen 
wounds upon his breast. Then she fell in love with him. 
He died and was buried in the cemetery of Colman's 
Church.] 

These are the arrows that murder sleep 
At every hour in the night's black deep ; 
Pangs of Love through the long day ache, 
All for the dead Dinertach's sake. 

Great love of a hero from Roiny's plain 
Has pierced me through with immortal pain, 
Blasted my beauty and left me to blanch, 
A riven bloom on a restless branch. 

Never was song like Dinertach's speech 

But holy strains that to Heaven's gate reach ; 

A front of flame without boast or pride, 

Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side. 

A growing girl — I was timid of tongue, 
And never trysted with gallants young, 
But since I have won into passionate age, 
Fierce love-longings my heart engage. 



82 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

I have every bounty that life could hold, 
With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold, 
But, fallen away from my haughty folk, 
In Irluachair's field my heart lies broke. 

There is chanting in glorious Aidne's meadow, 
Under St. Colman's Church's shadow ; 
A hero flame sinks into the tomb — 
Dinertach, alas, my love and my doom ! 

Chaste Christ ! that now at my life's last breath 
I should tryst with Sorrow and mate with Death ! 
At every hour of the night's black deep, 
These are the arrows that murder sleep. 



SHE. 

[From the Irish.] 

The white bloom of the blackthorn, she, 
The small sweet raspberry-blossom, she ; 

More fair the shy, rare glance of her eye, 
Than the wealth of the world to me. 

My heart's pulse, my secret, she, 
The flower of the fragrant apple, she ; 

A summer glow o'er the winter's snow, 
'Twixt Christmas and Easter, she. 

Eleanor Hull 



CREDHE'S LAMENT FOR CAIL. 

[From " The Colloquy of The Ancients."] 

O'er thy chief, thy rushing chief, Loch da Conn, 

Loud the haven is roaring ; 
All too late, her deadly hate for Crimtha's son 

Yonder deep is deploring. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 83 

Small comfort, I trow, to Credhe is her wail, 

Slender solace now, oh, my Cail ! 
Ochone ! och, wirrasthrue ! can she who slew 

Bid thee back, Spirit soaring ! 

Hark, the thrush from out Drumqueen lifts his keen 

Through the choir of the thrushes, 
With his mate, his screaming mate o'er the green 

See ! the red weasel rushes. 
Crushed on the crag lies Glensilen's doe, 

O'er her yon stag tells his woe, 
Thus, Cail, och, ochonee ! for thee, for thee 

My soul's sorrow gushes. 

O, the thrush, the mourning thrush, mating shall sing, 

When the furze bloom is yellow ; 
O, the stag, the grieving stag in the spring 

With a fresh doe shall fellow ! 
But love for me 'neath the ever moving mound 

Of the scowling sea lieth drowned ; 
While, och, och, ollagone ! the sea fowl moan 

And the sea beasts bellow. 



THE LAMENT OF FAND AT PARTING FROM 
CUCHULAIN. „ 

[From " The Sick Bed of Cuchulain."] 

'Tis I who must renounce my love and go, 
Lest conflict grow between thyself and me ; 

Yet had I shared with thee Cuchulain's love, 
My joy had been above all jealousy. 

Nay, happier were it here for me to dwell, 

Submitting well to thy supremacy, 
Than thus depart unto my Royal Seat 

Of Ard Abrat, strange though the thought to thee. 



84 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

The man is thine, Emer, in this love strife, 

noble wife, from me he breaks away ; 
Yet none the less I hunger for the bliss 

1 now shall miss and miss and miss alway. 

Proud prince on prince has supplicated me 

In secrecy his passion's joy to share, 
With none of these have I a love tryst kept, 

But still have stepped stern-minded past the snare. 

Joyless is she who gives a heart's whole meed 
To him who no full heed thereto returns, 

Better for her indeed in death to pass, 

Than not be yearned for, as for him she yearns. 

With fifty women dost thou hither fare, 
Thou of the lustrous hair and lofty will, 

For Fand's o'erthrow ? With all their tongues of scorn 
Is't well thy rival love-forlorn to kill ? 

Three times a fifty women such as these 
Attend my ease, wise, marriageable, fair ; 

They wait me now within my Royal Brugh, 
With pity's dew to calm my cruel care. 



* 



WERE YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN? 

[From the Irish.] 

Oh, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love ? 
Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove ? 
Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free ? 
And say, is she pining in sorrow like me ? 

I was upon the mountain, and saw there your love ; 
I saw there your own one, your queen and your dove ; 
I saw there the maiden with the step firm and free ; 
And she was not pining in sorrow like thee. 

Douglas Hyde. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. S$ 

PULSE OF MY HEART. 

[From the Irish.] 

As the sweet blackberry's modest bloom, 

Fair flowering, greets the sight, 
Or strawberries, in their rich perfume, 

Fragrance and bloom unite : 
So this fair plant of tender youth 

In outward charms can vie, 
And from within the soul of truth, 

Soft beaming fills her eye. 

Pulse of my heart ! dear source of care, 

Stolen sighs, and love-breathed vows ! 
Sweeter than when through scented air 

Gay bloom the apple boughs ! 
With thee no day can winter seem, 

Nor frost nor blast can chill ; 
Thou the soft breeze, the cheering beam, 

That keeps it summer still. 

Charlotte Brooke 



TWO SONGS FROM THE IRISH. 

I. 

The stars stand up in the air, 
The sun and the moon are gone, 

The strand of its waters is bare, 
And her sway is swept from the swan. 

The cuckoo was calling all day, 

Hid in the branches above, 
How my stoirin is fled far away — 

'Tis my grief that I gave her my love ! 



86 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Three things through love I see — 

Sorrow and sin and death — 
And my mind reminding me 

That this doom I breathe with my breath. 

But sweeter than violin or lute 

Is my love — and she left me behind ! 

I wish that all music were mute, 
And I to all beauty were blind. 

She's more shapely than swan by the strand, 
She's more radiant than grass after dew, 

She's more fair than the stars where they stand — 
'Tis my grief that her ever I knew ! 

II. 

'Tis a pity I'm not in England 

Or with one from Erin thither bound, 

Or out in the midst of the ocean 
Where the thousands of ships are drowned ; 

From wave to wave of the ocean 

To be guided on with the wind and the rain — 
And O King ! that Thou mightst guide me 

Back to my love again ! 

Thomas Mac Donagh 



PEARL OF THE WHITE BREAST. 

[From the Irish.] 

There's a colleen fair as May, 
For a year and for a day, 

I've sought by every way her heart to gain. 
There's no art of tongue or eye 
Fond youths with maidens try, 

But I've tried with ceaseless sigh, yet tried in vain. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 8? 

If to France or far-off Spain 
She'd cross the watery main, 

To see her face again the sea I'd brave. 
And if 'tis Heaven's decree 
That mine she may not be, 

May the Son of Mary me in mercy save ! 

O thou blooming milk-white dove, 
To whom I've given true love, 

Do not ever thus reprove my constancy. 
There are maidens would be mine, 
With wealth in hand and kine, 

If my heart would but incline to turn from thee. 

But a kiss with welcome bland, 
And a touch of thy dear hand 

Are all that I demand, wouldst thou not spurn ; 
For if not mine, dear girl, 
O Snowy- Breasted Pearl ! 

May I never from the fair with life return ! 

George Petrie. 



THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE. 

[From the Irish.] 

Oh, many a day have I made good ale in the glen, 
That came not of stream or malt — like the brewing of men. 
My bed was the ground ; my roof, the greenwood above, 
And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my 
love. 

Alas ! on that night when the horses I drove from the 

field, 
That I was not near from terror my angel to shield. 
She stretched forth her arms — her mantle she flung to 

the wind, 
And swam o'er Loch Lene her outlawed lover to find. 



88 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Oh ! would that a freezing, sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep 
And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep ! 
I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save — 
With her hand round my waist I'd fear not the wind or 
the wave. 

'Tis down by the lake, where the wild tree fringes its 

sides, 
The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides ; 
I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along, 
The birds go to sleep by the sweet, wild twist of her song. 

Jeremiah Joseph Callanan. 



CEAN DUBH DEELISH. 

[From the Irish.] 

Put your head, darling, darling, darling, 
Your darling black head my heart above ; 

Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance, 
Who with heart in breast could deny you love ? 

Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining, 
Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, 

For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows ; 
But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee ! 

Then put your head, darling, darling, darling. 

Your darling black head my heart above ; 
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance, 

Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love ? 

Sir Samuel Ferguson 



IRISH LOVE POE1RY. 89 

THE FLOWER OF NUT-BROWN MAIDS. 

[From the seventeenth century Irish.] 

If thou wilt come with me to the County of Leitrim, 

Flower of Nut-brown Maids — 
Honey of bees and mead to the beaker's brim 

I'll offer thee, Nut-brown Maid. 
Where the pure air floats o'er the swinging boats of the 

strand, 
Under the white-topped wave that laves the edge of the 

sand, 
There without fear we will wander together, hand clasped 
in hand, 
Flower of Nut-brown Maids. 

My heart never gave you liking or love, 
Said the Flower of Nut-brown Maids ; 

Though sweet are your words, there's black famine above, 
Said the Flower of Nut-brown Maids ; 

Will gentle words feed me when need and grim hunger 
come by ? 

Better be free, than with thee to the woodlands to fly ; 

What gain to us both if together we famish and die ? 
Wept the Flower of Nut-brown Maids. 

I saw her coming towards me o'er the face of the mountain 
Like a star glimmering through the mist ; 

In the field of furze where the slow cows were browsing, 
In pledge of our love we kissed ; 

In the bend of the hedge where the tall trees play with 
the sun, 

I wrote her the lines that should bind us for ever in one ; 

Had you a right to deny me the dues I had won, 
O Flower of Nut-brown Maids ? 

My grief and my torment that thou art not here with me 
now, 
Flower of Nut-brown Maids ? 



90 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY 

Alone, all alone, it matters not where or how, 

O Flower of Nut-brown Maids ; 
On a slender bed, O little black head, strained close to 

thee, 
Or a heap of hay, until break of day, it were one to me, 
Laughing in gladness and glee together, with none to see, 
My Flower of Nut-brown Maids. 

Eleanor Hull 



PASTHEEN FINN. 

[From the Irish.} 

Oh, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight, 

Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright ; 

Like the apple-blossom her bosom white, 

And her neck like the swan's on a March morn bright. 

Chorus. 

Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! come with 

me ! 
Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! 
And oh ! I would go through snow and sleet, 
If you would come with me, brown girl sweet ! 

Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen ! 

Her cheeks are red as the rose's sheen, 

But my lips have tasted no more, I ween, 

Then the glass I drink to the health of my queen ! 

Were I in the town where's mirth and glee, 
Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree, 
With my fair Pastheen upon my knee, 
'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly ! 

Nine nights I lay in longing and pain, 
Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain, 
Thinking to see you, love, again ; 
But whistle and call were all in vain ! 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 91 

I'll leave my people, both friend and foe ; 
From all the girls in the world I'll go ; 
But from you, sweetheart, oh, never ! oh, no ! 
Till I lie in the coffin stretched cold and low ! 

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 



SHE IS MY LOVE. 

[From the Irish.] 

She is my love beyond all thought, 

Though she has wrought my deepest dole ; 

Yet dearer for the cruel pain 

Than one who fain would make me whole. 

She is my glittering gem of gems, 
Who yet contemns my fortune bright ; 

Whose cheek but glows with redder scorn, 
Since mine has worn a stricken white. 

She is my sun and moon and star, 
Who yet so far and cold doth keep, 

She would not even o'er my bier 
One tender tear of pity weep. 

Into my heart unsought she came, 
A wasting flame, a haunting care ; 

Into my heart of hearts, ah ! Why ? 
And left a sigh for ever there. 



HAPPY 'TIS, THOU BLIND, FOR THEE. 

[From the Irish.} 

Happy 'tis, thou blind, for thee, 
That thou seest not our star ; 

Couldst thou see but as we see her, 
Thou wouldst be but as we are. 



0,2 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Once I pitied sightless men, 

I was then unscathed by sight ; 

Now I envy those who see not, 
They can be not hurt by light. 

Woe who once has seen her please, 
And then sees her not each hour ; 

Woe for him her love-mesh binding 
Whose unwinding passes power. 

Douglas Hyde. 



THE COOLUN. 

[From the Irish.'] 

Oh, had you seen the Coolun 

Walking down by the cuckoo's street, 
With the dew of the meadow shining 

On her milk-white twinkling feet. 
O my love she is and my colleen oge, 

And she dwells in Balnagar ; 
And she bears the palm of beauty bright 

From the fairest that in Erin are. 

In Balnagar is the Coolun, 

Like the berry on the bough her cheek ; 
Bright beauty dwells for ever 

On her neck and ringlets sleek. 
O sweeter is her mouth's soft music 

Than the lark or thrush at dawn, 
Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing 

Farewell to the setting sun. 

Rise up, my boy, make ready 

To horse, for I forth would ride, 

To follow the modest damsel 

Where she walks on the green hill-side; 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 93 

For ever since our youth were we plighted 

In faith, truth, and wedlock true. 
O sweeter her voice is nine times over 

Than organ or cuckoo ? 

And ever since my childhood 

I've loved the fair and darling child ; 
But our people came between us, 

And with lucre our pure love defiled. 
Oh, my woe it is and my bitter pain, 

And I weep it night and day 
That the colleen bawn of my early love 

Is torn from my heart away 

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 



IRISH LOVE-SONG. 

[From the Irish.] 

Would God I were that tender apple-blossom, 
Floating and falling from the twisted bough, 

To lie and faint within your silken bosom, 
As that does now ! 

Or would I were a little burnished apple 
For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold, 

While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple, 
Your hair's spun gold. 

Yea, would to God I were among the roses 
That lean to kiss you as you float between ! 

While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses 
To touch you, Queen ! 

Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing 

A happy daisy in the garden path : 
That so your silver foot might press me going, 

Even unto death ! 

Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 



94 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

CASHEL OF MUNSTER. 

[From the Irish.] 

I would wed you, dear, without gold or gear, or counted 

kine, 
My wealth you'll be, would fair friends agree, and you 

be mine. 
My grief, my gloom ! that you do not come, my heart's 

dear hoard ! 
To Cashel fair, though our couch were there, but a hard 

deal board. 

O come, my bride, o'er the wild hill-side to the valley low ! 
A downy bed for my love I'll spread, where waters flow, 
And we shall stray where streamlets play, the groves 

among, 
Where echo tells to the listening dells the blackbird's song. 

Love tender, true, I gave to you, and secret sighs, 

In hope to see upon you and me one hour arise, 

When the priest's blest voice would bind my choice and 

the ring's strict tie, 
If wife you be, love, to one but me, love, in grief I'll die. 

A neck of white has my heart's delight, and breast like 

snow, 
And flowing hair whose ringlets fair to the green grass flow, 
Alas ! that I did not early die, before the day 
That saw me here, from my bosom's dear, far, far away ! 

Edward Walsh. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 95 



MOLLY ASTHORE. 

As down by Banna's banks I strayed, one evening in May, 
The little birds with blithest notes made vocal every 

spray ; 
They sung their little notes of love, they sung them o'er 

and o'er : 
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore ! 

The daisies pied and all the sweets the dawn of Nature 

yields, 
The primrose pale, the violet blue, lay scattered o'er the 

fields : 
Such fragrance in the bosom lies of her whom I adore, 
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore ! 

I laid me down upon the bank bewailing my sad fate, 
That doomed me thus the slave of Love and cruel Molly's 

hate. 
How can she break the honest heart that wears her in its 

core ? 
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore ! 

You said you loved me, Molly dear ; ah, why did I believe ? 
Yet who could think such tender words were meant but 

to deceive. 
That love was all I asked on earth — nay, heaven could 

give no more. 
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore ! 

Oh, had I all the flocks that graze on yonder yellow hill, 
Or lowed for me the numerous herds that yon green 

pastures fill ; 
With her I'd gladly share my kine, with her my fleecy 

store, 
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore ! 



96 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Two turtle doves above my head sat courting on a bough, 
I envied them their happiness to see them bill and coo : 
Such fondness once for me she showed, but now, alas, 

'tis o'er ! 
Ah, gramachree, ma colleen oge, ma Molly Asthore ! 

Then fare thee well, my Molly clear ! thy loss I e'er shall 

moan, 
While life remains in Strephon's heart it beats for thee 

alone ; 
Though thou art false may heaven on thee its choicest 

blessings pour, 
Ah, gramachree. ma colleen oge, me Molly Asthore ! 

George Ogle. 



REMEMBRANCE. 

Cold in the earth — and the deep snow above thee, 
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave ! 

Have I forgot, my only love, to love thee, 
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave ? 

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover 
Over the mountains, on that northern shore, 

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover 
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more ? 

Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild Decembers, 
From these brown hills, have melted into spring, 

Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers 
After such years of change and suffering ! 

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, 
While the world's tide is bearing me along ; 

Other desires and other hopes beset me, 

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 97 

No later light has lighted up my heaven, 
No second morn has ever shone for me ; 

All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, 
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. 

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, 
And even Despair was powerless to destroy ; 

Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, 
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy. 

Then did I check the tears of useless passion — 
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine ; 
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten, 

Down to that tomb already more than mine. 

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, 

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain ; 

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish 
How could I seek the empty world again ? 

Emily Bronte. 



LAMENT OF THE IRISH MAIDEN. 

On Carrigdhoun the heath is brown, 

The clouds are dark o'er Ardnalee, 
And many a stream comes rushing down 

To swell the angry Ownabwee ; 
The moaning blast is sweeping fast 

Through many a leafless tree, 
And I'm alone, for he is gone, 

My hawk has flown, ochone, machree ! 

The heath was green on Carrigdhoun, 
Bright shone the sun on Ardnalee, 

The dark green trees bent trembling down 
To kiss the slumbering Ownabwee ; 



98 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

That happy day, 'twas but last May, 

'Tis like a dream to me, 
When Donnell swore, ay, o'er and o'er, 

We'd part no more, astor machree ! 

Soft April showers and bright May flowers 

Will bring the summer back again, 
But will they bring me back the hours 

I spent with my brave Donnell then ? 
'Tis but a chance, for he's gone to France, 

To wear the fleur-de-lys ; 
But I'll follow you, my Donnell Dhu, 

For still I'm true to you, machree ! 

Denny Lane. 



THE DESMOND. 

By the Feal's wave benighted, 

No star in the skies, 
To thy door by Love lighted 

I first saw those eyes, 
Some voice whispered unto me 

As the threshold I crossed, 
There was ruin before me, 

If I loved I was lost. 

Love came, and brought sorrow 

Too soon in his train ; 
Yet so sweet that to-morrow 

'Twere welcome again. 
Though misery's full measure 

My portion should be, 
I would drain it with pleasure 

If poured out by thee. 

You who call it dishonour 
To bow to this flame, 

If you've eyes, look upon her, 
And blush while you blame. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 99 

Hath the pearl less whiteness, 

Because of its birth ? 
Hath the violet less brightness 

For growing near earth ? 

No ! man for his glory 

To ancestry flies, 
But woman's bright story 

Is told in her eyes. 
While the monarch but traces 

Through mortals his line, 
Beauty, born of The Graces, 

Ranks next to Divine ! 

Thomas Moore. 



LOVE SONG. 

Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers 
Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair ; 

Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers 
Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air. 

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming 
To wind round the willow banks that lure him from 
above ; 

O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, 
I too could glide to the bower of my love ! 

Ah where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound 
her, 
Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, 
Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round 
her, 
To her lost mate's call in the forests far away. 

Come then, my bird ! For the peace thou ever bearest, 

Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me, 
Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairest, 
Bleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee. 

George Darley. 



100 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE 

DIED. 

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot, when by thy side, 

That thou couldst mortal be ; 
It never through my mind had passed 

The time would e'er be o'er, 
And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou shouldst smile no more. 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think 't will smile again ; 
And still the thought I will not brook 

That I must look in vain ; 
But when I speak, thou dost not say 

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid, 
And now I feel, as well I may, 

Sweet Mary ! thou art dead. 

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, 

All cold and all serene, 
If I might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been. 
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have, 

Thou seemest still mine own ; 
But there I lay thee in thy grave, 

And I am now alone ! 

I do not think, where'er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I perhaps may soothe this heart, 

By thinking, too, of thee, 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn, 

Of light ne'er seen before, 
As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore. 

Charles Wolfe. 



Irish love poetry loi 



A WHITE ROSE 

The red rose whispers of passion, 
And the white rose breathes of love ; 

Oh, the red rose is a falcon, 
And the white rose is a dove. 

But I send you a cream-white rosebud 

With a flush on its petal tips ; 
For the love that is purest and sweetest 

Has a kiss of desire on the lips. 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 



KITTY NEIL. 

Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel — 

Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning ; 
Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree, 

Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning. 
The sun is gone down, but the full harvest moon 

Shines sweetly and cool in the dew-whitened valley ; 
While all the air rings with the soft loving things, 

Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley. 

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while, 

Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing ; 
'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues — 

So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing. 
And now on the green, the glad groups are seen — 

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing, 
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil — 

Somehow when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing. 

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, 

And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion ; 

With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground — 
The maids move around just like swans on the ocean. 



102 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Cheeks bright as the rose — feet light as the doe's, 
Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing — 

Search the world all round, from the sky to the ground, 
No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing ! 

Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright eyes of deep 
blue 

Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, 
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form, 

Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly ? 
Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, 

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love ; 
The sight leaves his eye, as he says with a sigh, 

"Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love." 

John Francis Waller. 



KATHLEEN O'MORE. 

My love, still I think that I see her once more, 

But, alas ! she has left me her loss to deplore — 
My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, 
My Kathleen O'More ! 

Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue, 
Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new — 
So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen, 
My Kathleen O'More ! 

She milked the dun cow, that ne'er offered to stir ; 
Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her — 

So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, 
My Kathleen O'More ! 

She sat at the door one cold afternoon, 
To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon, 
So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, 
My Kathleen O'More ! 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 103 

Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower, 
It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour, 
And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen, 
My Kathleen O'More ! 

The bird of all birds that I love the best 
Is the robin that in the churchyard builds his nest ; 
For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er 
Kathleen, 

My Kathleen O'More. 

George Nugent Reynolds. 



THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE. 

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind, 

His love is rich to me ; 
I could not in a palace find 

A truer love than he. 
The eagle shelters not his nest 

From hurricane and hail, 
More bravely than he guards my breast, 

The boatman of Kinsale. 

The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps 

Is not a whit more pure, 
The goat that down Knock Sheehy leaps 

Has not a foot more sure. 
No firmer hand, no freer eye 

E'er faced an autumn gale. 
De Courcy's heart is not so high, 

The Boatman of Kinsale. 

The brawling squires may heed him not, 

The dainty stranger sneer, 
But who will dare to hurt our cot 

When Mvles O'Hea is here ? 



104 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

The scarlet soldiers pass along, 

They'd like but fear to rail — 
His blood is hot, his blow is strong, 

The Boatman of Kinsale. 

His hooker's in the Scilly van 

When seines are in the foam ; 
But money never made the man, 

Nor wealth a happy home. 
So blest with love and liberty, 

While he can trim a sail, 
He'll trust in God, and cling to me, 

The boatman of Kinsale. 

Thomas Davis. 



MINNIE. 

O crystal well, 

Play daintily on golden sands, 
When she comes at morning lonely, 
Followed by her shadow only, 
To bathe those little slender hands, 
All aweary gathering 
Seeds to make her blue bird sing, 
O crystal well ! 

O forest brown, 

Breathe thy richest twilight balm, 
As she wanders, pulling willow 
Leaflets for her fragrant pillow, 
Which with snowy cheek and calm 
She shall press with half-closed eyes, 
While the great stars o'er thee rise, 
O forest brown ! 

O Lady Moon, 

Light her, as she mounts the stair 
To her little sacred chamber, 
Like a mother ; and remember 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 105 

While she slumbers full of prayer 
Sweetly then to fill her heart 
With dreams of heaven, where thou art, 
O Lady Moon ! 

Thomas Caulfield Irwin. 



SONG. 



Slanting both hands against her forehead, 
On me she levelled her bright eyes ; 
My whole heart brightened as the sea 
When midnight clouds part suddenly ; 
Through all my spirit went the lustre 
Like starlight poured through purple skies. 

And then she sang aloud, sweet music, 
Yet louder as aloft it clomb ; 

Soft when her curving lips it left ; 
Then rising till the heavens were cleft, 
As though each strain, on high expanding, 
Were echoes in a silver dome. 

But ah ! she sings she does not love me ; 
She loves to say she ne'er can love ; 
To me her beauty she denies, 
Bending the while on me those eyes 
Whose beams might charm the mountain leopard, 
Or lure Jove's herald from above ! 

Aubrey De Vere. 



SONG. 



She says : " Poor friend, you waste a treasure 

Which you can ne'er regain — 
Time, health, and glory, for the pleasure 

Of toying with a chain." 



106 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

But then her voice so tender grows, 

So kind and so caressing ; 
Each murmur from her lips that flows 

Comes to me like a blessing. 

Sometimes she says : " Sweet friend, I grieve you- 

Alas, it gives me pain ! 
What can I ? Ah, might I relieve you, 

You ne'er had mourned in vain ! " 
And then her little hand she presses 

Upon her heart, and sighs ; 
While tears whose source not yet she guesses, 

Grow larger in her eyes. 

Aubrey de Vere. 



AN ANCIENT TALE. 

He leaned upon the garden gate ; 

He looked, and scarce he breathed ; 
Within the little porch she sate, 

With woodbine overwreathed ; 
Her eyes upon her work were bent, 

Unconscious who was nigh ; 
But oft the needle slowly went, 

And oft did idle lie ; 
And ever to her lips arose 

Sweet fragments sweetly sung, 
But ever, ere the notes could close, 

She hushed them on her tongue. 

Long, long the sun had sunken down, 

And all his golden trail 
Had died away to lines of brown, 

In duskier hues that fail. 
The grasshopper was chirping still — 

No other living sound 
Accompanied the tiny rill 

That gurgled under ground — 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. IO7 

No other living sound, unless 

Some spirit bent to hear 
Low words of human tenderness 

And mingling whispers near. 

The stars, like pallid gems at first, 

Deep in the liquid sky, 
Now forth upon the darkness burst, 

Sole kings and lights on high ; 
For splendour, myriadfold, supreme, 

No rival moonlight strove ; 
Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam, 

Nor more majestic Jove. 
But what if hearts there beat that night 

That recked not of the skies, 
Or only felt their imaged light 

In one another's eyes. 

And if two worlds of hidden thought 

And fostered passion met, 
Which, passing human language, sought 

And found an utterance yet, 
And if they trembled as the flowers 

That droop across the stream, 
The while the silent starry hours 

Wait o'er them like a dream ; 
And if, when came the parting time, 

They faltered still and clung ; 
What is it all ? — an ancient rhyme 

Ten thousand times re-sung — 
That part of Paradise which man 

Without the portal knows — 
Which hath been since the world began, 

And shall be till its close. 

John O'Hagan. 



108 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



DONAL KENNY. 

" Come, piper, play the ' Shaskan Reel,' 

Or else the ' Lasses on the Heather,' 
And, Mary, lay aside your wheel 

Until we dance once more together. 
At fair and pattern oft before 

Of reels and jigs we've tripped full many ; 
But ne'er again this loved old floor, 

Will feel the foot of Donal Kenny." 

Softly she rose and took his hand, 

And softly glided through the measure, 
While, clustering round, the village band 

Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure. 
Warm blessings flowed from every lip 

As ceased the dancers' airy motion : 
O Blessed Virgin ! guide the ship 

Which bears bold Donal o'er the ocean ! 

" Now God be with you all," he sighed, 

Adown his face the bright tears flowing — 
" God guard you well, avick," they cried, 

" Upon the strange path you are going." 
So full his breast he scarce could speak, 

With burning grasp the stretched hands taking, 
He pressed a kiss on every cheek, 

And sobbed as if his heart was breaking. 

" Boys, don't forget me when I'm gone, 

For sake of all the days passed over — 
The days you spent on heath and bawn, 

With Donal Ruadh. the rattlin' rover. 
Mary, agra, your soft brown eye 

Has willed my fate," he whispered lowly ; 
" Another holds thy heart : good-bye ! 

Heaven grant you both its blessings holy ! " 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. IO9 

A kiss upon her brow of snow, 

A rush across the moonlit meadow, 
Whose broom-clad hazels, trembling slow, 

The mossy boreen wrapped in shadow ; 
Away o'er Tully's bounding rill, 

And far beyond the Inny river ; 
One cheer on Carrick's rocky hill, 

And Donal Kenny's gone for ever." 

John Kebgan Casey. 



THE DRYNAN DHUN.* 

By road and by river the wild birds sing, 
O'er mountain and valley the dewy leaves spring ; 
The gay flowers are shining, gilt o'er by the sun, 
And fairest of all shines the Drynan Dhun. 

The rath of the fairy, the ruin hoar, 
With white silver splendour it decks them all o'er ; 
And down in the valleys where merry streams run, 
How sweet smell the blossoms of the Drynan Dhun. 

Ah ! well I remember the soft spring day, 
I sat by my love 'neath its sweet-scented spray ; 
The day that she told me her heart I had won, 
Beneath the white blossoms of the Drynan Dhun. 

The streams they were singing their gladsome song, 
The soft winds were blowing the wild woods among, 
The mountains shone bright in the red setting sun, 
As we sat 'neath the blossoms of the Drynan Dhun. 

'Tis my prayer in the morning, my dream at night, 
To sit thus again by my heart's dear delight, 
With her blue eyes of gladness, her hair like the sun, 
And her bright pleasant smile 'neath the Drynan Dhun. 

Robert Dwyer Joyce. 

1 The Blackthorn. 



110 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



THE WILD GEESE. 

I had to sail across the sea, 

A brave white bird went forth from me. 

My heart was hid beneath his wing ; 

strong white bird, come back in spring ! 

1 watched the Wild Geese rise and cry 
Across the flaming western sky ; 
Their winnowing pinions clove the light, 
Then vanished, and came down the night. 

I laid me low, my day was done ; 
I longed not for the morrow's sun 
But, closely swathed in swoon of sleep, 
Forgot to hope, forgot to weep. 

The moon, through veils of gloomy red, 
A warm yet dusky radiance shed 
All down our valley's golden stream 
And flushed my slumber with a dream. 

Her mystic torch lit up my brain ; 
My spirit rose and lived amain, 
And followed through the windy spray 
That bird upon its watery way. 

" O wild white bird, O wail for me 
My soul hath wings to fly with thee : 
On foam waves, lengthening out afar, 
We'll ride toward the western star. 

" O'er glimmering plains, through forest gloom, 
To track a wanderer's feet I come ; 
'Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake, 
I'll pass unfrightened for his sake. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. Ill 

" Alone, afar, his footsteps roam, 
The stars his roof, the tent his home. 
Saw'st thou what way the Wild Geese flew 
To sunward through the thick night dew ? 

" Carry my soul where he abides, 
And pierce the mystery that hides 
His presence, and through time and space 
Look with mine eyes upon his face. 

" Beside his prairie fire he rests, 
All feathered things are in their nests ;" 
" ' What strange wild bird is this ' " he saith, 
" Still fragrant with the ocean's breath ? " 

" ' Perch on my hand, thou briny thing 
And let me stroke thy shy wet wing ; m 
What message in thy soft eye thrills ? 
I see again my native hills, 

" ' And vale, and river's silver streak, 
The mist upon the blue, blue peak, 
The shadows grey, the golden sheaves, 
The mossy walls, the russet eaves. 

" ' I greet the friends I've loved and lost, 
Do all forget ? No, tempest- toast, 
That braved for me the ocean's foam, 
Some heart remembers me at home. 

" ' Ere spring's return I will be there, 
Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger,' " 
I wake and weep : the moon shines sweet, 
O dream too short ! O bird too fleet. 

Rosa Mulholland. 



112 BOOK OF IRISH POETPY. 



OUTSIDE 

A shining pathway of light slopes down from the half- 
closed door, 
Through the darkness on either hand it glimmers goldei 
and wide, 

A fair bridge spanning the night, and the dread deso- 
lation o'er, 

Stretching to me, where I stand forgotten, forlorn 
outside. 

If I dared to turn my feet away from the chill and th< 
gloom, 

If I followed yon radiant track with eager and noiseless 
tread, 

Should I find her, my only sweet, in some fragrant fireli 
room, 

Her soft dress shadowy black, and the glow* on hei 
bent bright head ? 

Perhaps, if I only dared, she would not bid me begone 

Perhaps she would smile as of yore, and be kind anc 

forget to chide ; 

Perhaps if she knew how I cared ; I will go ; I will seek 

her anon ; 

Alas ! they have shut the door and I am alone outside. 

Frances Wynne. 



TO AN ISLE IN THE WATER. 

Shy one, shy one, 
Shy one of my heart, 

She moves in the firelight, 
Pensively apart. 

She carries in the dishes 
And lays them in a row. 

To an isle in the water 
With her I would go, 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. II3 

She carries in the candles, 

And lights the curtained room ; 

Shy in the doorway 
And shy in the gloom* 

And shy as a rabbit, 

Helpful and shy, 
To an isle in the water 

With her would I fly. 

William Butler Yeats 



AN OLD SONG RESUNG. 

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet ; 
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. 
She bid me take love easy as the leaves grow on the tree ; 
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. 

In a field by the river my love and I did stand, 
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. 
She bid me take life easy as the grass grows on the weirs ; 
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears. 

William Butler Yeats. 



KILLARY. 

When all her brothers in the house 

Were lying asleep, my love 
Ran before me under the bend of boughs, 
Till we looked down from above 
On the long loch, 
On the brown loch, 
On the lone loch of Killary. 



114 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Together we ran down the copse 

And stood in the rain as close 
As the birds that sleep in the soft tops 
Of the tree that comes and goes, 
When the morn moon, 
When the young moon, 
When the morn moon is on Killary ! 

In tremblings of the water chill 
Swans we saw preen their coat, 
Biting their plumes, with stoop'd bill 
And quivering neck, afloat 
On the brown shade, 
On the deep shade, 
The shade of hills on Killary. 

" Why pale, my beloved, now 

When the first light 'gins to beat ? 
No sun of autumn is rich as thou, 
And honey after thy feet 

Shall rise from the grass, 

From the wet of the grass, 

The brow of the grass over Killary ! " 

" My grief it is only that thou and I 

Must part, like swans of the flood 
That rise up sorrowful into the sky ; 
For one goes over the wood, 
And one oversea, 
And one oversea, 
And one oversea from Killary ! . . 

"Ah, the little raindrops that hang on the bough, 

Together they may run, 
But never again shall I and thou 
Meet here in the morning sun . . . 
We shall meet no more, 
We must kiss no more, 
We shall meet no more by Killary ! " 

Herbert Trench. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 115 



THE WOOD PIGEON. 

The skies they were leaden, the snow-flakes were falling ; 

No blackbird or linnet was courting or calling ; 

But the wood-dove's sweet moaning was heard in the 

distance, 
And her song all of love came in dulcet persistence. 

Oh, what though the nests were all flooded with water, 
And the cold eggs would give them no sweet son or 

daughter, 
She was dreamy with pleasure for her true Love beside 

her, 
And her day was as gold as though young leaves did hide 

her ! 

O Love, sang the wood-dove, the sweet bird of summer, 
It were death, it were madness, were my Love a roamer ; 
But Love true and faithful, what power has cold weather 
To still our wild songs, Love, since we are together ? 

Then I said to my true Love, true love is enough, Love, 
And how wise is the wood-dove who learns that lore off, 

Love ! ♦ 
'Tis our charm for the winter, and when the winds cry, 

Love, 
And when, in the grave, on your heart I shall lie, Love. 

Katharine Tynan. 



FORGIVENESS. 

At dusk the window panes grew grey ; 

The wet world vanished in the gloom ; 
The dim and silver end of day 

Scarce glimmered through the little room. 



Il6 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

And all my sins were told ; I said 
Such things to her who knew not sin — 

The sharp ache throbbing in my head, 
The fever running high within — 

I touched with pain her purity ; 

Sin's darker sense I could not bring ; 
My soul was black as night to me ; 

To her I was a wounded thing. 

I needed love no words could say ; 

She drew me softly nigh her chair, 
My head upon her knees to lay, 

With cool hands that caressed my hair. 

She sat with hands as if to bless, 

And looked with grave, ethereal eyes ; 

Ensouled with ancient Quietness, 
A gentle priestess of the Wise. 



A.E. 



SONG. 



I made another garden, yea, 

For my new love ; 
I left the dead rose where it lay, 

And set the new above. 
Why did the summer not begin ? 

Why did my heart not haste ? 
My old love came and walked therein, 

And laid the garden waste. 

She entered with her weary smile, 

Just as of old ; 
She looked around a little while, 

And shivered at the cold. 
Her passing touch was death to all, 

Her passing look a blight : 
She made the white rose-petals fall, 

And turned the red rose white. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 117 

Her pale robe, clinging to the grass, 

Seemed like a snake, 
That bit the grass and ground, alas ! 

And a sad trail did make. 
She went up slowly to the gate ; 

And there, just as of yore, 
She turned back at the last to wait, 

And say farewell once more. 

Arthur O'Shaughnessy. 



NATURE AND LOVE. 

When first I gave him all my love 
I took the beauty of the world ; 

Wild winds, and sunlight, stars above, 
And clouds upon the mountains furled. 

The life of waters and of woods, 
The sweetness of the flowers and grass, 

Dreams of the sunset, joyous moods 
The spirit of the Summer has ; 

I filled him with their soft romance, 
I set my heart within its shrine ; 

He saw the lovely countenance 

Of Nature, and then turned to mine. 

All, all I loved was given to him, 
All, all I loved was shown to me ; 

And then, that evening grey and dim, 
The low moon burning o'er the sea, 

He kissed me, I gave back his kiss, 

My arms were round him, warm and fast- 

" Is Nature more," I cried, " than this ? 
Have I not conquered her at last ? " 



Il8 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Since then, he has loved, and loves, so much, 
That in the grave men say is sleep, 

He shall not lose my sweet wild touch 
Through all the silence of the deep, 

But, when the immortal passions move, 

Shall quick arise, and with a cry, 
Run to mine arms, and say, " O Love, 

Thou hast not forgotten ! — no, nor I." 

Stopford A. Brooke. 



THE LITTLE FLUTES. 

The world has slipt away and gone 

Like rain into the sea. 

What would be callin' me ? 
For songs and silver flutes are gone, 
The little flutes he fluted on, 

That will not leave me be. 

These northern mountains in their pride. 

Are steppin' from the sea 

(I mind he loved the sea), 
Blue lovely towers, walled in pride, 
I wonder now is peace inside ? 

Would sorrow leave me be ? 

For in his speech you knew the South, 
And in his eyes the sea, 
The grey green changin' sea. 

Ireland's sweeter in the South, 
And sweet the speakin' of his mouth 

That will not leave me be. 

1 mind his whistles through the dark, 
The tunes he piped for me, 

The flutes he fluted free, 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. II 9 

Faint-soundin' as the soarin' lark, 
Soft-soundin' silver flutes at dark, 
That will not leave me be. 

He's surely walkin' in the West, 

And pipin' to the sea, 

Of Ireland, Ireland free ! 
In Cork or Kerry, south or west ; 
O grief of Ireland that he rest, 

And leave the pipin' be ! 

He's put the small flute to his mouth . . . 

The flu tin' calls to me, 

Past Wicklow hills I see 
His laughin' eyes that loved the South, 
His silver pipes that call me south 

And will not leave me be ! 

Mrs. Denis O' Sullivan. 



THE PENALTY OF LOVE. 

If love should count you worthy, and should deign 
One day to seek your door and be your guest, 
Pause ! ere you draw the bolt and bid him rest, 

If in your old content you would remain. 

For not alone he enters : in his train 
Are angels of the mists, the lonely quest, 
Dreams of the unfulfilled and unpossessed. 

And sorrow, and life's immemorial pain. 

He wakes desires you never may forget, 
He shows you stars you never saw before, 
He makes you share with him for evermore, 

The burden of the world's divine regret. 

How wise were you to open not ! — and yet, 

How poor if you should turn him from the door 

Sidney Royse Lysaght. 



120 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



TO MORFYDD. 



A voice on the winds, 
A voice on the waters, 
Wanders and cries : 

O, what are the winds ? 
And what are the waters ? 
Mine are your eyes. 

Western the winds are, 
And western the waters, 
Where the light lies : 

O ! what are the winds ? 
And what are the waters ? 
Mine are your eyes. 

Cold, cold, grow the winds, 
And dark grow the waters, 
Where the sun dies. 

O ! what are the winds ? 
And what are the waters ? 
Mine are your eyes. 

And down the night winds, 
And down the night waters 
The music flies : 

O ! what are the winds ? 
And what are the waters ? 
Cold be the winds, 
And wild be the waters, 
So mine be your eyes. 

Lionel Johnson. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 121 



THE SEDGES. 

I whispered my great sorrow 

To every listening sedge ; 
And they bent, bowed with my sorrow, 

Down to the water's edge. 

But she stands and laughs lightly 

To see me sorrow so, 
Like the light winds that laughing 

Across the water go. 

If I could tell the bright ones 

That quiet- hearted move, 
They would bend down like the sedges 

With the sorrow of love. 

But she stands laughing lightly, 

Who all my sorrow knows, 
Like the little wind that laughing 

Across the water blows. 

Seumas O' Sullivan 



CAN DOOV DEELISH. 

Can doov deelish, beside the sea 

I stand and stretch my hands to thee 

Across the world. 
The riderless horses race to shore 
With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar, 

Blown manes uncurled. 

Can doov deelish, I cry to thee 
Beyond the world, beneath the sea, 

Thou being dead. 
Where hast thou hidden, from the beat 
"Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet, 

Thy dear black head ? 



122 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

God bless the woman, whoever she be, 
From the tossing waves will recover thee 

And lashing wind. 
Who will take thee out of the wind and storm, 
Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm 

And lips so kind ? 

I not to know. It is hard to pray, 

But I shall for this woman from day to day, 

" Comfort my dead, 
The sports of the winds and the play of the sea." 
I loved thee too well for this thing to be, 

O dear black head ! 

Dora Sigerson. 



THE BETRAYAL. 

When you were weary, roaming the wide world over, 

I gave my fickle heart to a new lover. 

Now they tell me that you are lying dead : 

O mountains fall on me and hide my head ! 

When you lay burning in the throes of fever, 
He vowed me love by the willow-margined river : 
Death smote you there — here was your trust betrayed, 

darkness, cover me, I am afraid ! 

Yea, in the hour of your supremest trial, 

1 laughed with him ! The shadow on the dial 
Stayed not, aghast at my dread ignorance : 
Nor man nor angel looked at me askance. 



Under the mountains there is peace abiding, 
Darkness shall be pavilion for my hiding, 
Tears shall blot out the sin of broken faith. 
The lips that falsely kissed, shall kiss but Death. 

Alice Furlong. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 123 



SONG. 

He climbs his lady's tower, where sail 

Cold clouds about the moon, 
And at his feet the nightingale 

Sings — Sir, too soon, too soon ! 

He steals across his lady's park, 

He tries her secret gate, 
And overhead the saucy lark 

Sings — Sir, too late, too late ! 

Eleanor Alexander. 



A SILENT MOUTH. 

O, little green leaf on the bough, you hear the lark in the 

morn, 
You hear the grey feet of the wind stir in the shimmering 

corn, 
You hear, low down in the grass, 
The Singing Sidhe as they pass, 
Do you ever he?r, O little green flame, 
My loved one calling, whispering my name ? 

little green leaf on the bough, like my lips you must 

ever be dumb, 
For a maiden may never speak until love to her heart says 

" Come." 
A mouth in its silence is sweet 
But my heart cries loud when we meet, 
And I turn my head with a bitter sigh 
When the boy who has stolen my love, unheeding, goes by. 

1 have made my heart as the stones in the street for his 

tread, 
I have made my love as the shadow that falls from his 
dear gold head, 



124 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

But the stones with his footsteps ring, 

And the shadow keeps following, 

And just as the quiet shadow goes ever beside or before, 

So must I go silent and lonely and loveless for evermore. 

Cathal O' Byrne. 



HIS HOME AND HIS OWN COUNTRY. 

I know not whether to laugh or cry, 
So greatly, utterly glad am I : 
For one, whose beautiful love-lit face 
The distance hid for a weary space, 
Has come this day of all days to me, 
Who am his home and his own country 

What shall I say who am here at rest, 
Led from the good things up to the best ? 
Little my knowledge, but this I know, 
It was God said ; " Love each other so." 
O love, my love, who hast come to me, 
Thy love, thy home, and thy own country. 

Emily Hickey. 



BITTER SERENADE. 

Fate damned you young. Death young would now 
frustrate you. 

I have but lived — as alchemists for gold — 
In my mad pity's flame to re-create you, 

Heavenly one, waning, cold ! 

Dark planet, to your sleepless desolations 
Whereto no ray serene hath ever gone 

Life might have come with my poor invocations ; 
You might have loved, and shone ! 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 125 

The lanterns and the gondolas have vanished, 
Gone the uproar and merry masquerade, 

From the lagoons the burning loves are banished, 
All your canal is shade. 

Magnolia-bloom is here my only candle, 

White petals wash and break along the wall, 

While this poor lute, the lute with the scorched handle, 
Is here to tell you all. 

Do you remember — but what soul remembers ? — 
I carved it from a log of quaintest tone, 

Snatched half-consumed out of a great hearth's embers ; 
The great hearth was your own. 

By God ! to the chords wherewith you then endowed us — 
Something in you gave frame and strings a voice — 

Now you must listen in the hours allowed us ; 
Listen, you have no choice ! . . . 

The very stars grow dread with tense fore-feeling 
Of dawn ; the bell-towers darken in the sky 

As they would groan before they strike, revealing — 
New day to such as I ! 

There comes a day too merciless in clearness, 

Worn to the bone the stubborn must give o'er, 

There comes a day when to endure in nearness 
Can be endured no more ! 

A man can take the buffets of the tourney, 
But there's a hurt, lady, beyond belief : 

A grief the sun finds not upon his journey 
Marked on the map of grief . . . 

Was I not bred of the same clay and vapour 
And lightning of the universe as you ? 

Had I the self-same God to be my shaper 
Or cracks the world in two ? 



126 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

It cannot be, though I have nought of merit, 

That man may hold so dear, and with such pain 

Enfold with all the tendrils of the spirit, 
Yet not be loved again. 

It cannot be that such intensest yearning, 
Such fierce and incommensurable care 

Starred on your face, as through a crystal burning, 
Is wasted on the air 

It cannot be I gave my soul, unfolding 

To you its very inmost, like a child 
Utterly giving faith (no jot withholding), 

By you to be beguiled. 

No. In rich Venice riotous and human, 

That shrinks for me to sandbanks and a sky, 

Love such as that I bear you must be common. 
Enough ; you let it die. 

Herbert Trench. 



THE WINGS OF LOVE. 

. . . I will row my boat on Muckross Lake when the 

grey of the dove 
Comes down at the end of the day ; and a quiet like prayer 
Grows soft in your eyes, and among your fluttering hair 
The red of the sun is mixed with the red of your cheek. 
I will row you, O boat of my heart ! till our mouths have 

forgotten to speak 
In the silence of love, broken only by trout that spring 
And are gone, like a fairy's finger that casts a ring 
With the luck of the world for the hand that can hold it 

fast. 
I will rest on my oars, my eyes on your eyes, till our 

thoughts have passed 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 12 7 

From the lake and the sky and the rings of the jumping 

fish ; 
Till our ears are filled from the reeds with a sudden swish, 
And a sound like the beating of flails in the time of corn. 
We shall hold our breath while a wonderful thing is born 
From the songs that were chanted by bards in the days 

gone by ; 
For a wild white swan shall be leaving the lake for the sky, 
With the curve of her neck stretched out in a silver spear. 
Oh ! then when the creak of her wings shall have brought 

her near, 
We shall hear again a swish, and a beating of flails, 
And a creaking of oars, and a sound like the wind in sails, 
As the mate of her heart shall follow her into the air. 
O wings of my soul ! we shall think of Angus and Caer, 
And Etain and Midir, that were changed into wild white 

swans 
To fly round the ring of the heavens, through the dusks 

and the dawns, 
Unseen by all but true lovers, till judgment day, 
Because they had loved for love only. O love ! I will say, 
For a woman and man with eternity ringing them round, 
And the heavens above and below them, a poor thing 

it is to be bound 
To four low walls that will spill like a pedlar's pack, 
And a quilt that will run into holes, and a churn that will 

dry and crack. 
Oh ! better than these, a dream in the night, or our heart's 

mute prayer 
That O'Donoghue, the enchanted man, should pass be- 
tween water and air, 
And say, I will change them each to a wild white swan, 
Like the lovers Angus and Midir, and their loved ones, 

Caer and Etain, 
Because they have loved for love only, and have searched 

through the shadows of things 
For the Heart of all hearts, through the fire of love, and the 

wine of love, and the wings. 

James H. Cousins. 



128 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



LITTLE MARY CASSIDY. 

Oh, 'tis little Mary Cassidy's the cause of all my misery, 

And the raison that I am not now the boy I used to be ; 
Oh, she bates the beauties all that we read about in history, 

And sure half the country-side is as hot for her as me. 
Travel Ireland up and down, hill, village, vale and town — 

Fairer than the Cailin Donn, you're looking for in vain ; 
Oh, I'd rather live in poverty with little Mary Cassidy 

Than emperor, without her, be of Germany or Spain. 

'Twas at the dance at Darmody's that first I caught a 
sight of her, 
And heard her sing the " Droighnean Donn," till tears 
came in my eyes, 
And ever since that blessed hour I'm dreaming day and 
night of her ; 
The devil a wink of sleep at all I get from bed to rise. 
Cheeks like the rose in June, song like the lark in tune, 
Working, resting, night or noon, she never leaves my 
mind ; 
Oh, till singing by my cabin fire sits little Mary Cassidy, 
'Tis little aise or happiness I'm sure I'll ever find. 

What is wealth, what is fame, what is all that people 
fight about 
To a kind word from her lips or a love-glance from her 
eye? 
Oh, though troubles throng my breast, sure they'd soon 
go to the right-about 
If I thought the curly head of her would rest there by 
and by. 
Take all I own to-day, kith, kin, and care away, 

Ship them all across the say, or to the frozen zone : 
Lave me an orphan bare — but lave me Mary Cassidy, 
I never would feel lonesome with the two of us alone. 

Francis A. Fahy 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 120, 



MOLLEEN OGE. 

Mollecn oge, my Molleen oge ! 
Go put on your natest brogue, 

And slip into your smartest gown, 
You rosy little rogue ; 
For a message kind I bear 
To yourself from ould Adair, 

That Pat the Piper's come aroun' 
And there'll be dancin' there. 

Molleen dear, I'll not presume 
To encroach into your room, 

But I'd forget a fairin' 
I'd brought you from Macroom ; 
So open ! and I'll swear 
Not one peep upon you ; there ! 

'Tis a silver net to gather 
At the glass your golden hair. 

Molleen pet, my Molleen pet, 
Faix I'm fairly in a fret 

At the time you're titivatin' ! 
Molleen, aren't you ready yet ? 
Now — net and gown and brogue — 
Are you sure you're quite the vogue ? 

But, bedad, you look so lovely, 
I'll forgive you, Molleen oge ! 



THE YIN WEE LUIK. 

As at the boord apart she sat, 
An' noo tae this yin noo tae that 

She talk'd wi' careless kin'ness, 
Fu'weel A kenn'd her inmaist heart 
In a' she said had little pert, 

Uv hai'f the words she heerd wuz min'less. 



130 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

An' though she seem'd tae shun my sight, 
A trusted mair her luve that night 

Than a' Airth's luves thegither ; 
Then yin wee gentle luik she gave. 
A'd waited lang that luik tae haive, 

An' lang A'd wait fur sich anither. 

G. F. Savage-Armstrong. 



THE SHAWLIE. 

Drive, bitter blast, frae lough tae sea 

A little min' yer smertin' ; 
Her ain wee shawlie's roon' my heart 

Her wee han's pinn'd at partin'. 
A'm proof the-night 'gen' win' an' snaw, 

A'll walk frae here tae Deny — 
Though Noe's flood yince mair cam' doon 

A'd face it bowld an' merry. 

" Noo, Charlie, dearie, ben' ye doon ; 

Ye jist maun tak' my shawlie ; 
A'll wrap it tight aroon' yer kist, 

For och, the night's sae squally, 
Puir lad, ye'll fin' it unco' cau'd 

By Gransha shore," says Kitty ; 
An' then her een luik'd up in mine 

Wi' ah, sich luve an' pity. 

Wee shawlie, pressin' saft an' werm 

Aroon' my breast aglowin', 
A kiss yer fringe, A hug ye fast, 

A mock the squalls a-blowin' ; 
Let thun'ers roar, let lightnin's glame, 

A'll face the tempest brawly, 
Whilst close agen' my thrabbin' heart 

A feel my Luv's wee shawlie ! 

G. F. Savage-Armstrong. 



IRISH IOVE POETRY. I3I 



THE WEE LASSIE'S FIRST LUVE. 

A cannae hear his name an' hide 

My thought wi' ony art ; 
A cannae see him come, an' calm 

The flitterin' uv my heart ; 
It's pain tae meet him when A walk, 

Or meet him nae ava ; 
A wish him aye to come tae me, 

A wish him aye awa'. 

A dinnae ken what's wrang wi' me ; 

A'm vixed, A kennae why ; 
A cannae talk, A cannae wark ; 

My min's a' ganged agley ; 
A say sich foolish thin's at whiles 

My face is scorch'd wi' pain . . , 
O, let them lave me tae mysel' ! 
A jist wud be alane. 

A'm nae sae tall as Elsie Barnes, 

A hae nae een like May's, 
Yit aft he turns frae May tae me, 

An' ne'er wi' Elsie strays. 
A cannae thole tae see him laugh 

Wi' Grace or Rose or Jean, 
An' yit he's standin' nigh my side 

Mair aft than ony ane. 

He's aye sae coorteous, kin' an' free 

Wi' mon an' lass an' chiel', 
Mayhap he cares nae mair fur me 

Than jist tae wish me weel . . . 
But ah, the kin'ness uv his voice 

An' ah, his dark blue ee' 
An' ah, his face an' coortly grace „ . . 

A think A jist cud dee. 

G. F. Savage- Armstrong 



132 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY, 



CUTTIN' RUSHES. 

Oh, maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago ! 

Meself was risin' early on a day for cuttin' rushes, 
Walkin' up the Brabla' burn, till the sun was low, 

Now I'd hear the burn run an' then I'd hear the 
thrushes. 
Young, still young ! — an' drenchin' wet the grass, 

Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin' sweetly down ; 
Here, lad, here ! will ye follow where I pass, 

An' find me cuttin' rushes on the mountain. 



Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so ? 

Rippin' round the bog pools high among the heather, 
The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave it go, 

'Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind 
together. 
Come, dear, come ! — an' back along the burn 

See the darlin' honeysuckle hangin' like a crown. 
Quick, one kiss — sure, there's some one at the turn ! 

" Oh, we're after cuttin' rushes on the mountain." 

Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago . . . 

I waken out o' dreams when I hear the summer thrushes, 
Oh, that's the Brabla' burn, I can hear it sing an' flow, 

For all that's fair, I'd sooner see a bunch o' green rushes. 
Run, burn, run ! can ye mind when we were young ? 

The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an' 
brown : 
Sing, burn, sing ! can ye mind the song ye sung 

The day we cut the rushes on the mountain ? 

Moira O'Neill. 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 133 

LITTLE CHILD, I CALL THEE. 

[From the Irish.] 

Little child, I call thee fair, 

Clad in hair of golden hue, 
Every lock in ringlets falling 

Down, to almost kiss the dew. 

Slow grey eye and languid mien, 

Brows as thin as stroke of quill, 
Cheeks of white with scarlet through them, 

Och ! it's through them I am ill. 

Luscious mouth, delicious breath, 
Chalk-white teeth, and very small, 

Lovely nose and little chin, 
White neck thin, she is swan-like all. 

Pure white hand and shapely finger, 

Limbs that linger like a song ; 
Music speaks in every motion 

Of my sea-mew warm and young 

Rounded breasts and lime- white bosom, 

Like a blossom, touched of none, 
Stately form and slender waist, 

Far more graceful than the swan. 

Alas for me ! I would I were 

With her of the soft-fingered palm, 

In Waterford to steal a kiss, 

Or by the Liss whose airs are balm. 

Douglas Hyde. 



134 BOOK 0F IRISH POETRY. 

EILEEN AROON. 

[Aft$r iht Irish.} 

When, like the early rose, 

Eileen aroon ! 
Beauty in childhood blows, 

Eileen aroon ! 
When, like a diadem, 
Buds blush around the stem, 
Which is the fairest gem ? 

Eileen aroon ! 

Is it the laughing eye, 

Eileen aroon ! 
Is it the timid sigh, 

Eileen aroon ! 
Is it the tender tone, 
Soft as the stringed harp's moan ? 
Oh ! it is Truth alone. 

Eileen aroon ! 

When, like the rising day, 

Eileen aroon ! 
Love sends his early ray, 

Eileen aroon ! 
What makes his dawning glow 
Changeless through joy or woe ? 
Only the constant know — 

Eileen aroon ! 

I know a valley fair, 

Eileen aroon ! 
I knew a cottage there, 

Eileen aroon ! 
Far in that valley shade 
I knew a gentle maid, 
Flower of a hazel glade, 

Eileen aroon ! 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 135 

Who in the song so sweet ? 

Eileen aroon ! 
Who in the dance so fleet ? 

Eileen aroon ! 
Dear were her charms to me, 
Dearer her laughter free, 
Dearest her constancy, 

Eileen aroon ! 

Were she no longer true, 

Eileen aroon ! 
What should her lover do ? 

Eileen aroon ! 
Fly with his broken chain 
Far o'er the sounding main, 
Never to love again, 

Eileen aroon ! 

Youth must with time decay, 

Eileen aroon ! 
Beauty must fade away, 

Eileen aroon ! 
Castles are sacked in war, 
Chieftains are scattered far, 
Truth is a fixed star, 

Eileen aroon ! 

Gerald Griffin. 



SONG. 

Love is cruel, love is sweet, 

Cruel, sweet ; 
Lovers sigh till lovers meet, 

Sigh and meet — 
Sigh and meet, and sigh again — 
Cruel sweet ! O sweetest pain ! 



I36 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Love is blind, but love is sly, 

Blind and sly ; 
Thoughts are bold, but words are shy, 

Bold and shy — 
Bold and shy, and bold again — 
Sweet is boldness, shyness pain. 

Thomas MacDonagh. 



NOW. 



For me, my friend, no grave-side vigil keep 

With tears that memory and remorse might fill ; 
Give me your tenderest laughter earth-bound still, 

And when I die you shall not want to weep. 

No epitaph for me with virtues deep 
Punctured in marble pitiless and chill : 
But when play time is over, if you will, 

The songs that soothe beloved babes to sleep. 

No lenten lilies on my breast and brow 
Be laid when I am silent ; roses red, 
And golden roses bring me here instead, 

That if you love or bear me I may know ; 
I may not know, nor care, when I am dead '. 

Give me your songs, and flowers, and laughter now. 

Eleanor Alexander. 



AMOR FONS AMORIS. 

I love all men the better, O love ! for loving thee ; 
The dear ones whom I cherish are dearer still to me ; 
Each stranger is my kinsman ; and ever for thy sake, 
Beloved ! at Love's bidding, new springs of love awake. 

I love all things the better for loving thee the best ; 
My thoughts of thee make deeper the glories of the West ; 
My hopes of thee make fresher the fragrance of the spring ; 
And when thy accents haunt me the birds more sweetly 
sing 



IRISH LOVE POETRY. 137 

I love the whole world better for loving thee so well ; 
Love tells my soul the secret which tongue may never tell ; 
I learn, when thou art near me, that loss is more than gain, 
That not a pang is wasted, that not a hope is vain. 

Even Love — the dream, the vision, that floods the world 

with light — 
Lit by the flame thou kindlest, grows more divinely 

bright ; 
His beauty wins new beauty from shining through thine 

eyes ; 
And when he claims my homage he comes in thy sweet 

guise. 

Edmond G. A. Holmes. 



Heroes polishing their glowing weapons, 

Blowing trumpets, loudly martial, 

A frost-foggy wind with whistling darts flying : 

These are the sounds of music that delight at early morn 

Ancient Irish Rann. 



138 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 



HEROIC WAR POETRY. 



CUCHULAIN'S WOOING. 

Great-limbed and swift and beautiful 
Past any dream, he came to her, 

From Emain Macha through a land 
For gladness of the Spring astir. 

And on the flutes of Morning blown, 
Strong Joy that took for breath no pause, 

The song of Breeze and Stream and Bird, 
The herald of his coming was. 

Yea, and through all her April ways, 
To Erin's utmost sea-girt rim, 

Through waking seed, and blade and leaf, 
Green Nature laughed for joy of him. 

And where he held his sun-bright course, 
Straight-sped as arrow on its flight, 

Men thronged as to a pageant wrought 
By the high gods for their delight. 

And seeing, with a fairer faith 
The Deathless Mighty Ones adored, 

Who thus unto their Ulster's need 
Had shaped at once a shield and sword. 

T 39 



I40 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

So through the singing land he passed, 
The peerless warden of her fame, 

So, Lord himself of Love and War, 
Unto his fair-faced love he came. 

Eleanor R. Cox. 



LEAGH'S SUMMONS TO CUCHULAIN. 

[From " The Sick-bed of Cuchulain."] 

Rise, champion of Ultonia's need, 
From sickness freed to strength awake ! 

All miss thee from King Conor's levy ; 
For him thy heavy slumber break ! 

Behold ! his steel-clad shoulders glare, 
His trumpets blare for battle press ; 

Behold his chariots sweep the glen, 
He marshals men as though for chess. 

His Red Branch Knights, with spear on loop, 
His maiden troop, tall and serene, 

His vassal kings — a battle storm — 
By each the form of his fair queen ! 

Look forth ! the winter hath begun ; 

Now one by one its marvels mark, 
Behold, for it beseems thee well, 

Its long, cold spell, its hueless dark. 

This rest inglorious is not good — 
Weak lassitude from wanton strife — 

Such long repose is drunkenness, 
Such sleep no less than death in life. 

This trance, as of a toping churl, 
With mighty ardour hurl away ! 

Forth, from thy bed of impotence, 

Leap, Champion Prince, to front the fray. 



IRISH WAR POETRY I4I 

WHERE IS THE SWEETEST MUSIC ? 

[From " The Dean of Lismore's Book."] 

Noble news of Song and Valour 

Bear I Balor's fort within, 
Little need I who may hearken, 

If my song be heard of Finn. 

Men were gay in golden Allin 

Hill and hall in, far and wide ; 
Feast was spread and music flowing 

And we saw our Finn preside. 

Ossian staunch, and Diarmid stately 

Sate by Luay, greatly strong, 
And their friends, at feast and foray : 

Ancient Conan, Oscar young. 

" Speak, ye champion chiefs, rejoicing," 

Rang the voice of Finn around, 
" Tell me each, in answer meetest, 

Where is sweetest music found ? " 

" There's one music lit for faming ; 
Give me gaming," Conan cried — 
Strong his hand for crash of combat, 
But his head was sense denied. 

" Song of Swords, for war unsheathing," 
With quick breathing came the word, 

" Throng of blows when falling fleetest," — 
Seemed the sweetest Oscar heard. 

" There is music more endearing," 

Dark-eyed Diarmid did declare ; 
" Naught comes nigh the voice's cadence — 

When the maiden's soft and fair." 



142 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

"'* Sweeter song at dawning dewy," 
Said Mac Luay, sharp of spear, 

" When the bounding dogs are crying, 
And we race the flying deer." 

" This is Song, and this is Music," 

Spoke our lofty leader old, 
" Blowing breeze 'mid moving banners 

And an Army 'neath their gold." 

" Then I fear no bardic passion, 

Ossian ! " said our Captain strong, 

" With my faithful Fiana round me — 
This to me is Harp and Song." 

George Sigerson. 



THE GIANT WALKER. 

[This and the succeeding poem, " The Washer of the 
Ford," are not literal versions, although they are the 
substance of original legends, and are given as specimens 
of the supernatural figures in Celtic romance. They 
are from Sir Samuel Ferguson's epic poem of Congal. 
The Giant Walker, or the Bodach an chota lachtna, 
the churl with the gray cloak, is a familiar figure in both 
Highland and Irish legend, and has also been made the 
subject of a poem by James Clarence Mangan, under the 
title of " The Churl with the Gray Coat." " The Washer 
of the Ford " is paraphrased with considerable literalness 
from a passage in McCraith's " Wars of Turlough," the 
apparition appearing to the Clan Brian Roe.] 

Around the Mound of Sighs 
They filled the woody-sided vale ; but no sweet sleep 

their eyes 
Refreshed that night, for all the night, around their 

echoing camp, 
Was heard continuous from the hills a sound as of the 

tramp 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 1 43 

Of giant footsteps ; but so thick the white mist lay around 
None saw the Walker save the king. He, starting at the 

sound, 
Called to his foot his fierce red hound ; athwart his 

shoulders cast 
A shaggy mantle, grasped his spear, and through the 

moonlight passed, 
Alone up dark Ben-Boli's heights, toward which, above 

the woods, 
With sound as when at close of eve the noise of falling 

floods 

Is borne to shepherd's ear remote on stilly upland lawn, 
The steps along the mountain side with hollow fall came on. 
Fast beat the hero's heart and close down- crouching by 

his knee 
Trembled the hound, while through the haze, huge as 

through mists at sea, 
The week-long sleepless mariner descries some mountain 

cape, 
Wreck-infamous, rise on his lee, appeared a monstrous 

Shape, 
Striding impatient, like a man much grieved, who walks 

alone, 
Considering of a cruel wrong. Down from his shoulders 

thrown, 
A mantle, skirted stiff with soil splashed from the miry 

ground, 
At every stride against his calves struck with as loud 

rebound, 
As makes the mainsail of a ship brought up along the blast, 
When with the coil of all its ropes it beats the sounding 

mast. 
So striding vast, the giant passed ; the king held fast 

his breath, 
Motionless, save his throbbing heart, and still and chill 

as death 
Stood listening while, a second time, the giant took the 

round 
Of all the camp ; but when at length, for the third time, 

the sound 



144 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Came up, and through the parting haze a third time huge 

and dim, 
Rose out the Shape, the valiant hound sprang forth and 

challenged him. 
And forth, disdaining that a dog should put him so to 

shame, 
Sprang Congal, and essayed to speak. 

" Dread shadow, stand ! Proclaim 
What wouldst thou, that thou thus all night around my 

camp shouldst keep 
Thy troublous vigil, banishing the wholesome gift of 

sleep 
From all our eyes who, though inured to dreadful sounds 

and sights 
By land and sea, have never yet in all our perilous nights 
Lain in the ward of such a guard." 

The Shape made answer none ; 
But with stern wafture of his hand, went angrier striding 

on, 
Shaking the earth with heavier steps. Then Congal on 

his track 
Sprang fearless. 

" Answer me, thou Churl," he cried. " I bid thee 

back ! " 
But while he spoke, the giant's cloak around his shoulders 

grew 
Like to a black bulged thunder-cloud ; and sudden out 

there flew 
From all its angry swelling folds, with uproar unconfined, 
Direct against the king's pursuit, a mighty blast of wind 
Loud flapped the mantle tempest-lined, while fluttering 

down the gale, 
As leaves in autumn, man and hound were swept into the 

vale, 
And, heard o'er all the huge uproar, through startled 

Dalaray 
The giant went, with stamp and clash, departing south 

away. 

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 145 



THE WASHER OF THE FORD. 

And now, at dawn, to cross the fords, hard by the royal 

town, 
The fresh, well-ordered, vigorous bands in gallant ranks 

drew down ; 
When lo ! a spectre horrible, of more than human size, 
Full in the middle of the ford took all their wondering eyes. 
A ghastly woman it appeared, with gray dishevelled hair 
Blood-draggled, and with sharp-boned arms, and fingers 

crooked and spare, 
Dabbing and washing in the ford, where mid-leg deep 

she stood 
Beside a heap of heads and limbs that swam in oozing 

blood, 
Where on and on a glittering heap of raiment rich and 

brave 
With swift, pernicious hands she scooped and poured 

the crimson wave. 
And though the stream approaching her ran tranquil, 

clear, and bright, 
Sand-gleaming between verdant banks, a fair and peaceful 

sight, 
Downward the blood-polluted flood rode turbid, strong 

and proud, 
With heady-eddying dangerous whirls and surges dashing 

loud. 
All stood aghast. But Kelloch cried, " Advance me to the 

bank ! 
I'll speak the hag." 

But back, instead, his trembling bearers shrank. 
Then Congal from the foremost rank a spear-cast for- 
ward strode, 
And said, " Who art thou, hideous one ? and from what 

curst abode 
Comest thou thus in open day the hearts of men to 

freeze ? 
And whose lopped heads and severed limbs and bloody 

vests are these ? " 



I46 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

" I am The Washer of the Ford," she answered, " and 

my race 

Is of the Tuath de Danaan line of Magi ; and my place 
For toil is in the running streams of Erin ; and my cave 
For sleep is in the middle of the shell-heaped Cairn of 

Maev, 
High up on haunted Knocknarea ; and this fine carnage- 
heap 
Before me, and these silken vests and mantles which I 

steep 
Thus in the running water, are the severed heads and 

hands 
And spear-torn scarfs and tunics of these gay-dressed, 

gallant bands, 
Whom thou, O Congal, leadest to death. And this," the 

Fury said, 
Uplifting by the clotted locks what seemed a dead man's 

head, 
" Is thine own head, O Congal ! " 

Therewith she rose in air, 
And vanished from the warriors, leaving the river bare 
Of all but running water. 

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 



A DIRGE FOR KING NIALL OF THE NINE 
HOSTAGES (a.d. 405). 

TUIRN, SON OF TORNA. 

When we hosted forth afar 

With Echu's son of valour, 
Yellow as the primrose star 

I saw his tresses shine. 

TORNA. 

For the fancy that compares 

The crown of golden pallor, 
The primrose wears, with Niall's hairs 

A bond-maid should be thine 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 1 47 

TUIRN, SON OF TORNA. 

Brows and lashes dusky soft 

Of equal arch and cluster ; 
Eyes as woad flowers in a croft 

Or hyacinthine blu$; 
Then the carmine of his cheeks 

Unchanging in their lustre : 
Not the fairy fox-glove streaks 

May woods with such a hue. 

Torna. 

Laughter rare, red lips that ne'er 

Reproved with scornful blaming, 
Hero front in battle brunt 

Eclipsing all beside ; 
A harvest moon, a fiery noon, 

A beacon fiercely flaming, 
A dragon ship — he glowed and rode 

On war's tumultuous tide. 

Tuirn, son of Torna. 

Keene on keene has Kerry poured, 

Above his tresses flaxen ; 
Till my grief heart-high is stored 

For Muredach's grandson great. 
Erin, Alba now shall dread 

The onset of the Saxon — 
Now that Echu's son lies dead — 

Oh, black reproachful fate. 

Torna. 

Saxon hordes shall shouting come 
And swarms of Lombard strangers ; 

From the hour that Niall lay dumb 
Are Gael and Pict dismayed. 

Tuirn, son of Torna. 

Ah, that still on Tara's tower, 
Bright star in darkest dangers, 



I48 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

With tresses of the iris flower, 
He stood, our stalwart aid ! 

Torna. 

Great delight, great peace it was, 
Dear son of my affection, 

After thee for some high cause 
In company to go. 

Tuirn, son of Torna. 

Hero of the shoulder white, 

Beneath whose strong protection 

Host on host we faced the fight 
But never fled the foe. 



THE SONG OF THE SWORD OF CARROLL. 

[Addressed about A.D. 909 to Dalian mac More, Chief 
Bard to King Carroll mac Muiregan, by an 
unknown poet.} 

Bright battle-joy of the Gael, War's great woof sharply 

unthreading, 
Chieftain on chieftain beheading, Sword of Carroll, all 

hail ! 
Oft on a foeman's soil with Kings of Counsel forth raiding, 
Ever a Worthy One aiding, hast thou divided the 

spoil. 

Still in a strong white hand pursuing thy dread, red reap- 
ing ; 

Till night's shadows were sweeping o'er the Lagenian 
Land. 

Many a man of might thy ravening radiance wielded ; 

Where was the shield but yielded pierced by its veno- 
mous bite. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. I49 

Enna of noble bands for forty years without sorrow 

Brandished thee, morrow by morrow, safe in his strenu- 
ous hands. 

Enna, no mean heir-loom, to Dunling his son did bequeath 
thee ; 

Still his foemen beneath thee fell till thou broughtest 
him doom. 

Many a Prince, proud-mounted, possessed thee ere 

Dermot the Fierce, 
With thee to hew and to pierce, sixteen summers had 

counted. 
Then when his powers decreased, and a mightier master 

was owed thee, 
On Muiregan Dermot bestowed thee, even at Allen's 

Feast. 

Forty the years of thy sway with Muiregan, High King 

of Allen, 
" Never a one," sang Dalian, " passed without warfare 

away." 
Muiregan, Viking-girth, at Wexford gave thee to Carroll. 
Thou wert his partner in peril, long as he paced yellow 

earth. 

Red was thy rallying point, at Odba, the Field of the 

Strangers, 
Scorner of valorous dangers, breaker of body and joint ! 
Crimson thy edge in its stain — at Belach Moon wast 

thou proven ; 
Fierce that fight as an oven angered all Alvy's plain. 

Round thee a goodly host at Dunochter melted asunder ; 
Through thee Aed, War's wonder, at Leafin yielded the 

ghost. 
Through thee an army grew thin when thy lightning 

struck into slumber 
Flannagan's Son and his number, high-walled Tara 

within. 



150 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

From thee southward they fled out of Boyne of the rough 

feats of valour ; 
When, at thy stroke catching pallor, Cnogva the Noble 

dropped dead. 
Furious too was thy force, as the bolt from a black cloud's 

rattle, 
When, in the front of the battle, Ailill of Fal fell a 

corse. 

Never an hour of defeat hadst thou with the fair-meadowed 

Carroll ; 
Just was he ever in quarrel, faithful in every feat. 
Gladly danced by each day, thy gleesome nights were 

unreckoned ; 
Monarchs at sun-dawn beckoned thee into combat away. 

Whom henceforth shalt thou curse or to Victory's goal 

be starting ? 
With whom, since Carroll's departing he bedded for 

better or worse ? 
Weapon of Hero on Hero, fear not thou shalt ever lie 

rusted, 
Still for a champion trusted forth on his foes thou shalt 

spring. 

" Proudest Prize of the Gael ! " shall glorious Naas repute 

thee, 
Finn of the Feasts shall salute thee ; " Sword of Carroll, 

all hail ! " 



KING AIULL'S DEATH. 

[From the Book of Leinster.] 

I know who won the peace of God — 
The old King Ailill of the Bann, 

Who fought beyond the Irish sea 
All day against a Connaught clan 



IRISH WAR POETRY 151 

The King was routed. In the flight 

He muttered to his charioteer, 
" Look back : the slaughter, is it red ? 

The slayers, are they drawing near ? " 

The man looked back. The west-wind blew 
Dead clansmen's hair against his face. 

He heard the war-shout of his foes, 
The death-cry of his ruined race. 

The foes came darting from the height, 
Like pine-trees down a swollen fall, 

Like heaps of hay in flood, his clan 
Swept on or sank — he saw it all. 

And spake, " The slaughter is full red, 
And we may still be saved by flight." 

Then groaned the King, " No sin of theirs 
Falls on my people here to-night. 

" No sin of theirs, but sin of mine, 

For I was worst of evil kings, 
Unrighteous, wrathful, hurling down 

To death or shame all weaker things. 

" Draw rein, and turn the chariot round, 
My face against the foemen bend, 

When I am seen and slain, mayhap 
The slaughter of my tribe will end." 

They drew and turned. Down came the foe. 

The King fell cloven on the sod. 
The slaughter then was stayed, and so 

King Ailill won the peace of God. 

Whitley Stokes. 



_ 



152 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



REBEL MOTHER'S LULLABY. 

Ah, rest to the morrow, for many the sorrow 

That waking will brew ; 
Gone is thy brother, 

Long must I rue ; 
Hark not thy mother 

Rocking thee to, 
Rocking thee fro, Lennavan mo, 

Ireland's own woe 
Never must keep children from sleep, 

Lennavan mo ! 

The clouds are fast creeping, and Mary is weeping 

Her tears down the sky ; 
Grey is the evening 

When Irishmen die ; 
Hark not the keening, 

Rest thee and lie, 
Lennavan mo, Lennavan mo, 

Far be the foe, 
Ours is the strife, yours is dear life, 

Lennavan mo ! 

Earl Garratt is hiding, Lord Edward is riding, 

And fast is his rein ; 
The horses are stamping 

Over the plain ; 

Hark not the tramping, 

Turn thee again, 
Lennavan mo, Lennavan mo, 

Nestle down low, 
Others may ride, you must abide, 

Lennavan mo 1 

Shane Leslie. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 153 

LATER BARDIC WAR POETRY. 



O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE. 

[From the Irish.'] 

Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night, 
mavrone ! 
O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this oleak night for Hugh ; 
Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through 
and through, 
Pierceth one to the very bone ! 

Rolls real thunder ? Or was that red, livid light 
Only a meteor ? I scarce know ; but through that 

midnight dim, 
The pitiless ice- wind streams. Except the hate that 
persecutes him 
Nothing hath crueller venomy might. 

An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems ! 
The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have 

been burst wide ; 
Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong 
ocean's tide, 
Descends grey rain in roaring streams. 

Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green 
woods, 
Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchain- 

able sea, 
Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce 
bear, he, 
This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods. 

O, mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire ! 
Darkly, as in a dream he strays ! Before him and behind 
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind — 

The wounding wind, that burns as fire ! 



154 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY 

It is my bitter grief — it cuts me to the heart — 
That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate ! 
O, woe to me, where is he ? Wandering, houseless, 
desolate, 

Alone, without or guide or chart ! 

Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry- 
bright, 
Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous 

winds 
Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet- 
shower blinds 
The hero of Galang to-night ! 

Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is, 
That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately form, 
Should thus be tortured and o'erborne — that this un- 
sparing storm 

Should wreak its wrath on head like his ! 

That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the 
oppressed, 
Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be paralysed 

by frost — 
While through some icicle-hung thicket — as one lorn 
and lost — 
He walks and wanders without rest. 

The tempest- driven torrent deluges the mead ; 
It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds — 
The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds, 

So that the cattle cannot feed. 

The pale bright margins of the streams are seen by 
none ; 
Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every 

side — 
It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and 
wide — 
Water and land are blent in one. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 155 

Through some dark wood, 'mid bones of monsters, 
Hugh now strays, 
As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but 

manly brow — 

O, what a sword- wound to that tender heart of his were 
now 
A backward glance at peaceful days ! 

But other thoughts are his — thoughts that can still 
inspire 
With joy and onward-bounding hope the bosom of 

MacNee — 
Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows of 
the sea, 
Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire ! 

And though frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his 
eyes, 
And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble, fine, fair fingers 

o'er, 
A warm dress is to him that lightning-garb he ever wore, 
The lightning of the soul, not skies. 

Avran. 

Hugh marched forth to the fight — I grieved to see him 
so depart ; 
And lo ! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad, 

betrayed — 
But the memory of the lime-white mansions his right hand 
hath laid 
In ashes, warms the hero's heart ! 

James Clarence Mangan. 



156 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



A LAMENT FOR THE RED EARL. 

His grave is lone by Guadalquiver, 
And low is his young heart laid, 
Where the quiet waves of The Yellow River 
Sleep in the linden shade ; 
But hard and cold 
Lies foreign mould 
Beneath that royal head. 

Oh, had he fallen in the ringing battle 

Out by Dungannon's side, 
Where the Norman rout, like driven cattle, 
Choked Avon's swirling tide : 
Then should my grief 
Find proud relief 
When I sang how the Red Earl died. 

But I am come to this pale river, 

Weeping, from far away, 
Where my dear Avon rolls for ever, 
Pure as the dewy ray, 

When soft and bright 
The summer night 
Kisses the lingering day. 

Oh, lovingly that light is lying 

On grey Dunluce's hold, 
Where the breath of night comes shoreward sighing, 
Low sighing as of old ; 
And, soft as sleep, 
The shadows creep 
Far up the Spears of Gold. 

But I must watch by this pale river, 
Weary and lone and grey : 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 157 

And my grief's tide must roll for ever 
Wearing this heart away — 
Deep as the wave, 
Dark as his grave, 
Cold as my hero's clay. 

Richard Mahony 



LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH 
O'NEILL. 

" Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh 

O'Neill ? " 
" Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet 

with steel." 
" May God wither up their hearts ! May their blood 

cease to flow, 
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan 

Ruadh." 

" Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter 

words. 
From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure 

swords : 
But the weapon of the Sassanach met him on his way. 
And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard's day. 

" Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One. Wail, wail ye for 

the Dead, 
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath — with ashes 

strew the head. 
How tenderly we loved him. How deeply we deplore ! 
Holy Saviour ! but to think we shall never see him more ! 

" Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, 
Sure we never won a battle — 'twas Owen won them 

all. 
Had he lived — had he lived — our dear country had been 

free : 
But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be. 



158 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

" O'Farrell and Clanricarde, Preston and Red Hugh, 
Audley and MacMahon — ye valiant, wise and true : 
But — what are ye all to our darling who is gone ? 
The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner 
stone. 

" Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, weep for 

our pride ! 
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had 

died ! 
Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb — weep him, young and 

old : 
Weep for him, ye women — your beautiful lies cold ! 

" We thought you would not die — we were sure you would 

not go, 
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel 

blow — 
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the 

sky— 
O ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? Why did you die ? 

" Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill ! bright was 

your eye, 
O ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? Why did you die ? 
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on 

high, 
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan ! — why did 

you die ? " 

Thomas Davis. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 1 59 



JACOBITE AND ANTI-JACOBITE LAYS. 



THE MAIDEN CITY. 

[In 1686 Richard Talbot was sent to Ireland by James 
II. to command the army with the title of Earl of Tyr- 
connell, and a year later he was made Viceroy. He was 
a Catholic, it being the policy of James to restore to the 
Catholics many of their rights. Tyrconnell wished to 
introduce some Catholics into the corporations of the 
large cities. Derry absolutely refused to admit them, 
and when Lord Antrim was sent with i ,200 men to enforce 
the order, the 'prentices of Derry closed the gates in their 
faces. When the deposed King James, after landing in 
Ireland in 1689, marched to Derry, he was treated in the 
same way by the sturdy sons of the city.] 

Where Foyle his swelling waters rolls northward to the 

main. 
Here, Queen of Erin's daughters, fair Derry fixed her 

reign. 
A holy temple crowned her, and commerce graced her 

street, 
A rampart wall was round her, the river at her feet ; 
And here she sat alone, boys, and looking from the hill 
Vow'd The Maiden on her throne, boys, would be a 

maiden still. 

From Antrim crossing over in famous eighty-eight 
A plumed and belted lover came to the Ferry gate : 
She summon'd to defend her our sires — a beardless race — ■ 
Who shouted NO SURRENDER ! and slamm'd it in 

his face. 
Then in a quiet tone, boys, they told him 'twas their will 
That The Maiden on her throne, boys, should be a 

maiden still, 



l6o BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Next, crushing all before him, a kingly wooer came 
(The royal banner o'er him, blushed crimson deep for 

shame) ; 
He showed the Pope's commission, nor dream'd to be 

refused. 
She pitied his condition, but begg'd to stand excused. 
In short, the fact is known, boys, she chased him from the 

hill, 
For The Maiden on her throne, boys, would be a maiden 

still. 

On our brave sires descending, 'twas then the tempest 
broke, 

Their peaceful dwellings rending, 'mid blood and flame 
and smoke. 

That hallow' d graveyard yonder swells with the slaugh- 
ter' d dead — 

Oh ! brothers ! pause and ponder, it was for us they 
bled; 

And while their gift we own, boys — the fane that tops our 
hill, 

Oh, The Maiden on her throne, boys, shall be a maiden 
still. 

Nor wily tongue shall move us, nor tyrant arm affright, 
We'll look to One above us Who ne'er forsook the right ; 
Who will, may crouch and tender the birthright of the 

free, 
But, brothers, NO SURRENDER, no compromise for 

me ! 
We want no barrier stone, boys, no gates to guard the hill, 
Yet The Maiden on her throne, boys, shall be a maiden 

still. 

Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. l6l 

THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE. 

[Collated from two old versions of the ballad.] 

July the first of a morning fair 

In sixteen ninety famous, 
King William did his men prepare 

To fight with false King Shamus. 
King James he pitched his tents between 

The lines for to retire ; 
But King William threw his bomb-balls in 

And set them all on fire. 

Thereat revenge the Irish vowed 

Upon King William's forces, 
And vehemently with cries did crowd 

To check their forward courses. 
A ball from out their batteries flew 

As our King he faced their fire ; 
His shoulder knot away it shot, 

Quoth he, " Pray come no nigher ! " 

Then straight his officers he did call, 

Saying, " Gentlemen, mind your station, 
And prove your valour one and all 

Before this Irish nation. 
My brazen walls let no man break 

And your subtle foes you'll scatter ; 
Let us show them to-day good English play, 

As we go over the water." 

Then horses and foot we marched amain, 

Resolved their ranks to batter ; 
But the brave Duke Schomberg he was slain, 

As he went over the water. 
Then King William cried, " Feel no dismay 

At the losing of one commander, 
For God shall be our King to-day 

And I'll be general under." 

M 



l62 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Then stoutly we Boyne river crossed 

To give the Irish battle ; 
Our cannon to his dreadful cost 

Like thunder-claps did rattle 
In majestic mien our Prince rode o'er, 

The stream ran red with slaughter 
As with blow and shout we put to rout 

Our enemies over the water. 



Anon. 



A BALLAD OF SARSFIELD ; 

Or, The Bursting of the Guns. 

[This intercepting of De Ginkle's siege train on its way 
to Limerick is one of the most famous episodes in the 
career of the gallant Patrick Sarsfield.] 

Sarsfield rode out, the Dutch to rout, 
And to take and break their cannon ; 

To Mass went he at half-past three, 
And at four he crossed the Shannon. 

Tyrconnel slept. In dream his thoughts 

Old fields of victory ran on ; 
And the chieftains of Thomond in Limerick's towers 

Slept well by the banks of the Shannon. 

He rode ten miles and he crossed the ford 
And couch' d in the wood and waited ; 

Till, left and right on march'd in sight 
That host which the true men hated. 

" Charge ! " Sarsfield cried ; and the green hillside 
As they charged replied in thunder ; 

They rode o'er the plain, and they rode o'er the 
sla n, 
And the rebel rout lay under ! 



IRISH WAR POETRY 1 63 

He burn'd the gear the knaves held dear — 
For his King he fought, not plunder ; 

With powder they cramm'd the guns, and ramm'd 
Their mouths the red soil under 

The spark flash' d out — like a nation's shout 

The sound into heaven ascended ; 
The hosts of the sky made to earth reply, 

And the thunders twain were blended ! 

Sarsfield rode out the Dutch to rout, 
And to take and break their cannon ; 

A century after, Sarsfield's laughter 
Was echoed from Dungannon. 

Aubrey De Vere 



A BALLAD OF ATHLONE (2nd Siege) ; 

Or, How They Broke Down the Bridge. 

[When the Jacobite war was renewed De Ginkle besieged 
Athlone, which was held by St. Ruth. The gallant action 
described in the poem only delayed the taking of the 
town a short while.] 

Does any man dream that a Gael can fear ? 

Of a thousand deeds let him learn but one ! 
The Shannon swept onward broad and clear, 

Between the leaguers and broad Athlone. 

" Break down the bridge ! " — Six warriors rushed 
Through the storm of shot and the storm of shell : 

With late but certain victory flushed, 

The grim Dutch gunners eyed them well. 

They wrench' d at the planks 'mid a hail of fire : 
They fell in death, their work half done : 

The bridge stood fast ; and nigh and nigher 
The foe swarmed darkly, densely on. 



164 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

" O, who for Erin will strike a stroke ? 

Who hurl yon planks where the waters roar ? " 
Six warriors forth from their comrades broke, 

And flung them upon that bridge once more. 

Again at the rocking planks they dashed ; 

And four dropped dead ; and two remained : 
The huge beams groaned and the arch down-crashed ; 

Two stalwart swimmers the margin gained. 

St. Ruth in his stirrups stood up, and cried, 
" I have seen no deed like that in France ! " 

With a toss of his head, Sarsfield replied, 

" They had luck, the dogs ! 'Twas a merry chance ! : 

O many a year upon Shannon's side 

They sang upon moor and they sang upon heath 

Of the twain that breasted that raging tide, 
And the ten that shook bloody hands with Death ! 

Aubrey De Vere. 



AFTER THE BATTLE (OF AUGHRIM). 

[Athlone fell. St. Ruth retreated to Aughrim (in 
Galway), where on July 12, a decisive battle was fought 
St. Ruth was slain and the Irish utterly defeated. No 
quarter was given by the English, so that the battle ended 
in wholesale and horrible slaughter.] 

Night closed around the conqueror's way, 

And lightnings showed the distant hill, 
Where those who lost that dreadful day 

Stood few and faint but fearless still ! 
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, 

For ever dimmed, for ever crossed — 
Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel, 

When all but life and honour's lost. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. I65 

The last sad hour of Freedom's dream 

And valour's task moved slowly by, 
While mute they watched till morning's beam 

Should rise and give them light to die. 
There's yet a world where souls are freCj 

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; 
If death that world's bright opening be ; 

Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? 

Thomas Moore. 



IRISH BRIGADE BALLADS. 



A FAREWELL TO PATRICK SARSFIELD. 

[From the Irish.] 

Farewell, O Patrick Sarsfield ! May luck be on your path ! 
Your camp is broken up, your work is marred for years ; 
But you go to kindle into flame the king of France's 
wrath, 
Though you leave sick Eire in tears. 
Och ! ochone ! 

May the white sun and moon rain glory on your head, 
All hero as you are, and holy man of God ! 

To you the Saxons owe a many an hour of dread, 
In the land you have often trod, 
Och ! ochone ! 

The Son of Mary guard you and bless you to the end ! 
'Tis altered is the time since your legions were astir, 
When, at Cullen, you were hailed as the Conqueror and 
Friend, 
And you crossed Narrow-water, near Birr. 
Och ! ochone ! 



1 66 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

I'll journey to the North, over mount, moor, and wave ; 

'Twas there I first beheld, drawn up in file and line, 
The brilliant Irish hosts— they were bravest of the brave ! 

But, alas ! they scorned to combine ! 
Och ! ochone ! 

On the bridge of the Boyne was our first overthrow ; 

By Slaney, the next, for we battled without rest ; 
The third was at Aughrim. O Eire ! thy woe 

Is a sword in my bleeding breast ! 
Och ! ochone ! 

Oh, the roof above our heads it was barbarously fired, 
While the black Orange guns blazed and bellowed 
around ! 
And as volley followed volley, Colonel Mitchel inquired 
Whether Lucan still stood his ground. 
Och ! ochone ! 

But O' Kelly still remains to defy and to toil ; 

He has memories that Hell won't permit him to forget, 
And the sword that will make the blue blood flow like oil 

Upon many an Aughrim yet ! 
Och ! ochone ! 

And I never shall believe that my fatherland can fall, 
With the Burkes, and the Dukes, and the son of Royal 
James ; 
And Talbot the Captain, and Sarsfield above all, 
The beloved of damsels and dames. 
Och ! ochone ! 

James Clarence Mangan. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 1 67 

FONTENOY 1745. 

I. — Before the Battle ; night. 

Oh, bad the march, the weary march, beneath these alien 

skies, 
But good the night, the friendly night, that soothes our 

tired eyes. 
And bad the war, the tedious war,' that keeps us sweltering 

here, 
But good the hour, the friendly hour, that brings the 

battle near. 
That brings us on the battle, that summons to their share 
The homeless troops, the banished men, the exiled sons 

of Clare. 

Oh, little Corca Bascinn, the wild, the bleak, the fair ! 
Oh, little stony pastures, whose flowers are sweet, if rare ! 
Oh, rough the rude Atlantic, the thunderous, the wide, 
Whose kiss is like a soldier's kiss which will not be denied ! 
The whole night long we dream of you, and waking 

think we're there, — 
Vain dream, and foolish waking, we never shall see Clare. 

The wind is wild to-night, there's battle in the air ; 
The wind is from the west, and it seems to blow from 

Clare. 
Have you nothing, nothing for us, loud brawler of the 

night ? 
No news to warm our heart-strings, to speed us through 

the fight ? 
In this hollow, star-pricked darkness, as in the sun's 

hot glare, 
In sun-tide, in star-tide, we thirst, we starve for Clare ! 

Hark ! yonder through the darkness one distant rat- 
tat-tat ! 
The old foe stirs out there, God bless his soul for that ! 



l68 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

The old foe musters strongly, he's coming on at last, 
And Clare's Brigade may claim its own wherever blows 

fall fast. 
Send us, ye western breezes, our full, our rightful share, 
For Faith, and Fame, and Honour, and the ruined hearths 

of Clare. 

Emily Lawless. 



FONTENOY. 1745. 

II. — After the Battle ; early dawn, Clare coast. 

" Mary Mother, shield us ! Say, what men are ye, 
Sweeping past so swiftly on this morning sea ? " 
" Without sails or rowlocks merrily we glide 
Home to Corca Bascinn on the brimming tide/' 

" Jesus save you, gentry ! why are you so white, 
Sitting all so straight and still in this misty light ? " 
" Nothing ails us, brother ; joyous souls are we, 
Sailing home together, on the morning sea." 

" Cousins, friends, and kinsfolk, children of the land, 
Here we come together, a merry, rousing band ; 
Sailing home together from the last great fight, 
Home to Clare from Fontenoy, in the morning light. 

" Men of Corca Bascinn, men of Clare's Brigade, 
Harken stony hills of Clare, hear the charge we made ; 
See us come together, singing from the fight, 
Home to Corca Bascinn, in the morning light." 

Emily Lawless 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 169 



CLARE'S DRAGOONS. 

Vive la ! for Ireland's wrong, 
And vive la ! for Ireland's right ; 
Vive la ! in the battle throng, 

For a Spanish steed and sabre bright ! 

The brave old lord died near the fight, 
But, for each drop he lost that night, 
A Saxon cavalier shall bite 

The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons. 
For never, when our spurs were set, 
And never, when our sabres met, 
Could we the Saxon soldiers get 

To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons. 

Vive la ! for the New Brigade 
Vive la ! the old one too ! 

Vive la ! the rose shall fade, 

And the shamrock shine for ever new ! 

Another Clare is here to lead, 
The worthy son of such a breed ; 
The French expect some famous deed, 

When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons. 
Our colonel comes from Brian's race, 
His wounds are in his breast and face, 
The gap of danger is still his place, 

The foremost of his bold Dragoons. 

Vive la ! the New Brigade ! 
Vive la ! the old one too ; 

Vive la ! the rose shall fade, 
And the shamrock shine for ever new ! 

There's not a man in the squadron here 
Was ever known to flinch or fear ; 
Though first in charge, the last in rere 
Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons. 



1^0 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

But, see ! we'll soon have work to do, 
To shame our boasts or prove them true, 
For hither comes the English crew 

To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons. 

Vive la ! for Ireland's wrong ! 

Vive la ! for Ireland's right ! 

Vive la ! in battled throng, 

For a Spanish steed and sabre bright ! 

Oh, comrades, think how Ireland pines 
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines — 
Her dearest hope the ordered lines 

And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons 1 
Then fling your green flag to the sky, 
Be Limerick your battle-cry, 
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high 

Around the track of Clare's Dragoons ! 

Vive la ! the New Brigade ! 

Vive la ! the old one too ! 

Vive la ! the rose shall fade, 
And the shamrock shine for ever new ! 

Thomas Davis. 



CREMONA. 

[The French army, including a part of the Irish Brigade, 
under Marshal Villeroy, held the fortified town of Cremona 
during the winter of 1702. Prince Eugene, with the Im- 
perial Army, surprised it one morning, and, owing to the 
treachery of a priest, occupied the whole city before the 
alarm was given. Villeroy was captured, together with 
many of the French garrison. The Irish, however, con- 
sisting of the regiments of Dillon and Burke, held a fort 
commanding the river gate, and defended themselves all 
day, in spite of Prince Eugene's efforts to win them over 
to his cause. Eventually Eugene, being unable to take 
the post, was compelled to withdraw from the city.] 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 171 

The Grenadiers of Austria are proper men and tall ; 
The Grenadiers of Austria have scaled the city wall ; 

They have marched from far away 

Ere the dawning of the day, 
And the morning saw them masters of Cremona. 

There's not a man to whisper, there's not a horse to neigh ; 
Of the footmen of Lorraine and the riders of Dupres, 

They have crept up every street, 

In the market-place they meet, 
They are holding every vantage in Cremona. 

The Marshal Villeroy he has started from his bed ; 
The Marshal Villeroy has no wig upon his head ; 

" I have lost my men ! " quoth he, 

" And my men they have lost me, 
And I sorely fear we both have lost Cremona." 

Prince Eugene of Austria is in the market-place , 
Prince Eugene of Austria has smiles upon his face ; 

Says he, " Our work is done, 

For the Citadel is won, 
And the black and yellow flag flies o'er Cremona." 

Major Dan O'Mahony is in the barrack square, 

And just six hundred Irish lads are waiting for him there 

Says he, " Come in your shirt, 

And you won't take any hurt, 
For the morning air is pleasant in Cremona." 

Major Dan O'Mahony is at the barrack gate, 

And just six hundred Irish lads will neither stay nor wait ; 

There's Dillon and there's Burke, 

And there'll be some bloody work, 
Ere the Kaiserlics shall boast they hold Cremona. 

Major Dan O'Mahony has reached the river fort, 
And just six hundred Irish lads are joining in the sport ; 

" Come take a hand !" says he, 

" And if you will stand by me, 
Then it's glory to the man who takes Cremona ! " 



172 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Prince Eugene of Austria has frowns upon his face, 
And loud he calls his Galloper of Irish blood and race : 

" MacDonnell, ride, I pray, 

To your countrymen, and say 
That only they are left in all Cremona ! " 

MacDonnell he has reined his mare beside the river 

dyke, 
And he has tied the parley flag upon a sergeant's pike ; 

Six companies were there 

From Limerick and Clare, 
The last of all the guardians of Cremona, 

" Now, Major Dan O'Mahony, give up the river gate, 
Or, Major Dan O'Mahony, you'll find it is too late ; 

For when I gallop back 

'Tis the signal for attack, 
And no quarter for the Irish in Cremona ! " 

And Major Dan he laughed : " Faith, if what you say 

be true, 
And if they will not come until they hear again from 
you, 
Then there will be no attack, 
For you're never going back, 
And we'll keep you snug and safely in Cremona." 

All the weary day the German stormers came, 

All the weary day they were faced by fire and flame, 

They have filled the ditch with dead, 

And the river's running red ; 
But they cannot win the gateway of Cremona. 

All the weary day, again, again, again, 

The horsemen of Dupres and the footmen of Lorraine, 

Taafe and Herberstein, 

And the riders of the Rhine ; 
It's a mighty price they're paying for Cremona. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 173 

Time and time they came with deep-mouthed German 

roar, 
Time and time they broke like the wave upon the shore ; 

For better men were there 

From Limerick and Clare, 
And who will take the gateway of Cremona ? 

Prince Eugene has watched, and he gnaws his nether lip ; 
Prince Eugene has cursed as he saw his chances slip : 

"Call off! Call off!" he cried, 

"It is nearing eventide, 
And I fear our work is finished in Cremona." 

Says Wauchope to McAuliffe, " Their fire is growing slack." 
Says Major Dan O'Mahony, " It is their last attack ; 

But who will stop the game 

While there's light to play the same, 
And to walk a short way with them from Cremona ? 

And so they snarl behind them, and beg them turn and 

come, 
They have taken Neuberg's standard, they have taken 
Diak's drum ; 
And along the winding Po, 
Beard on shoulder, stern and slow, 
The Kaiserlics are riding from Cremona. 

Just two hundred Irish lads are shouting on the wall ; 
Four hundred more are lying who can hear no slogan call ; 

But what's the odds of that, 

For it's all the same to Pat 
If he pays his debt in Dublin or Cremona. 

Says General de Vaudray, " You've done a soldier's work ! 
And every tongue in France shall talk of Dillon and of 
Burke ! 

Ask what you will this day, 

And be it what it may, 
It is granted to the heroes of Cremona." 



174 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

" Why, then," says Dan O'Mahony, " one favour we 

entreat, 
We were called a little early, and our toilet's not complete. 

We've no quarrel with the shirt, 

But the breeches wouldn't hurt, 
For the evening air is chilly in Cremona." 

Sir A. Conan Doyle. 



THE IRISH COLONEL 

Said the King to the Colonel : 
" The complaints are eternal, 

That you Irish give more trouble 
Than any other corps." 

Said the Colonel to the King : 
"This complaint is no new thing, 

For your foemen, Sire, have made it 
A hundred times before." 

Sir A. Conan Doyle. 



LATER IRISH WAR POETRY. 



OH ! THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. 

Oh ! the sight entrancing, 

When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files array'd 

With helm and blade, 
And plumes in the gay wind dancing ; 
When hearts are all high beating, 
And the trumpet's voice repeating 

That song whose breath 

May lead to death, 
But never to retreating ! 



IRISH WAR POETRY, 175 

Then, if a cloud comes over 
The brow of sire or lover, 

Think 'tis the shade 

By victory made, 
Whose wings right o'er us hover. 
Oh ! the sight entrancing, 
When the morning beam is glancing 

O'er files array'd 

With helm and blade, 
And plumes in the gay wind dancing ! 

Yet, 'tis not helm nor feather — 
For ask yon despot, whether 

His plumed bands 

Could bring such hands 
And hearts as ours together. 
Leave pomps to those who need 'em — 
Give man but heart and freedom ; 

And proud he braves 

The gaudiest slaves 
That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. 

The sword may pierce the beaver, 
Stone walls in time may sever, 

'Tis mind alone, 

Worth steel and stone, 
That keeps men free for ever. 
Oh ! that sight entrancing, 
When the morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files array'd 

With helm and blade 
And in freedom's cause advancing ! 

Thomas Moore, 



I76 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought as we hollow' d his narrow bed, 
And smooth' d down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. Ijy 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone in his glory. 

Charles Wolfe. 



WAYS OF WAR. 

A terrible and splendid trust, 

Heartens the host of Innisfail ; 
Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust ; 

A lightning glory of the Gael. 

Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers, 
And Tara the assembling place : 

But each sweet wind of Ireland bears 
The trump of battle on its race. 

From Dursey Isle to Donegal, 

From Howth to Achill, the glad noise 

Rings : and the airs of glory fall, 
Or victory crowns their fighting joys. 

A dream ! a dream ! an ancient dream ! 

Yet, ere peace come to Innisfail, 
Some weapons on some field must gleam, 

Some burning glory fire the Gael. 

That field may lie beneath the sun, 
Fair for the treading of an host : 

That field in realms of thought be won 
And armed minds do their utternost. 

Some way, to faithful Innisfail, 
Shall come the majesty and awe 

Of martial truth, that must prevail, 
To lay on all the eternal law. 

Lionel Johnson. 



178 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



THE SWORD. 

What rights the brave ? 

The sword ! 
What frees the slave ? 

The sword ! 
What cleaves in twain 
The despot's chain, 
And makes his gyves and dungeon vain ? 

The sword ! 

Chorus. 
Then cease thy proud task never, 
While rests a link to sever ! 

Guard of the free, 

We'll cherish thee, 
And keep thee bright for ever ! 

What checks the knave ? 

The sword ! 
What smites to save ? 

The sword ! 
What wreaks the wrong 
Unpunished long, 
At last, upon the guilty strong ? 

The sword ! 

Chorus. 
Then cease thy proud task never, etc. 

What shelters right ? 

The sword ! 
What makes it might ? 

The sword ! 
What strikes the crown 
Of tyrants down, 
And answers with its flash their frown ? 

The sword ! 

Chorus. 
Then cease thy proud task never, etc. 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 179 

Still be thou true, 

Good sword ! 
We'll die or do, 

Good sword ! 
Leap forth to light, 
If tyrants smite, 
And trust our arms to wield thee right, 

Good sword ! 

Chorus. 
Yes ! cease thy proud task never, 
While rests a link to sever ! 

Guard of the free, 

We'll cherish thee, 
And keep thee bright for ever ! 

Michael Joseph Barry. 



A SOLDIER'S WAKE . 

And this is all she has to lay 

To-night upon the snowy sheets, 

Before the friends who come the way, 
And sighing take their humble seats — 

This medal, bravely, dearly won, 

Poor token of her gallant son. 

But over this, as nought beside 
Of him she loved to her remains, 

The lights are lit, the keen is cried, 
And women croon their saddest strains, 

While men who knew his boyhood well, 

Say, foes went down before he fell. 

These clasps and medal ; only these ! 

For this she nursed and loved him long. 
She rocked him softly on her knees, 

And filled his ears with pleasant song. 
And saw him with a mother's pride, 
Grow up and strengthen by her side. 



l80 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Till bright with manhood's glowing charms 
He in his turn her nurse became, 

He clasped her in his manly arms, 

And fondly propped her drooping frame. 

Her step grew weak, her eye grew dim, 

But then she lived and moved in him. 

He went ; he joined the deadly fight, 
His true heart loved her not the less ; 

But these are all she has to-night 
To light and cheer her loneliness — 

These silver honours, dearly won, 

Poor tokens of her gallant son. 

But even these, to-morrow morn 
When lights burn out and friends depart, 

Shall round her withered neck be worn, 
Shall lie upon her weary heart 

Till death, for his dear memory's sake, 

And *fhen — shall deck another wake. 

Timothy Daniel Sullivan. 



A SONG OF DEFEAT. 

Not for the lucky warriors, 

— The winner at Waterloo, 

Or him of a newer name 

Whom loud-voiced triumphs acclaim 

Victor against the few — 

Not for these, O Eire, 

I build in my heart to-day 

The lay of your sons and you 

I call to your mind to-day, 
Out of the mists of the past, 
Many a hull and many a mast, 
Black in the bight of the bay 



IRISH WAR POETRY. l8l 

Over against Ben Edair ; 

And the lip of the ebbing tideway all 

Red with the life of the Gael and Gall, 

And the Danes in a headlong slaughter sent : 

— And the women of Eire keening 

For Brian, slain at his tent. 

Mother, O grey, sad mother, 

Love, with the troubled eyes, 

For whom I marshal to-day 

The sad and splendid array, 

Calling the lost to arise, 

— As some queen's courtier unbidden 

Might fetch her gems to the sun, 

Praising the glory and glow 

Of all that was hers to show — 

Eire, love Brian well, 

For Brian fought, and he fell : 

But Brian fought, and he won : 

God ! that was long ago ! 

Nearer and dearer to you, 

Eire, Eire mo bhron, 

(List to a name of your own, 

sweet name, My Sorrow ! ) 

Are the suns that flamed and faded 
In a night that had no morrow. 

1 call to your mind Red Hugh, 
And the castle's broken ward ; 
I call to your mind O'Neill, 

And the fight at the Yellow Ford : 

— And the ships afloat on the main, 

Bearing O'Donnell to Spain, 

For the flame of his quick and leaping soul 

To be quenched in a venomed bowl : 

— And the shore by the S willy's shadows, 

And the Earls pushed out through the foam, 

And O'Neill in his grave-clothes lying, 

With the wish of his heart in Ireland, 



1 82 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

And his body cold in Rome. 
I call to your mind Benburb 
And the stubborn Ulster steel, 
And the triumph of Owen Roe ; 
Clonmel, and the glorious stand 
Of the younger Hugh O'Neill ; 
— And Owen dead at Derry, 
And Cromwell loosed on the land. 

I call to your mind brave Sarsfield, 

And the battle in Limerick street, 

The mine and the shattered wall, 

And the battered breach held good, 

And William full in retreat : 

— And, at the end of all, 

Wild geese rising on clamorous wing 

To follow the flight of an alien King. 

And the hard- won treaty broke, 

And the elder faith oppressed, 

And the blood- — but not for Ireland — 

Red upon Sarsfield's breast. 

Ended, the roll of the great 

And famous leaders of armies, 

The shining lamps of the Gael 

Who wrestled a while with fate 

And broke the battle of foeman 

Ere the end left widowed Eire 

Lone with her desolate wail. 

Lone, yet forsaken : 

Out of no far dim past 

Call I the names of the last 

Who strove and suffered for Eire. 

Saddest and nearest of all, 

See how they flock to the call, 

The troop of famous felons : 

Who won no joy of the sword, 

Who tasted of no reward 

But the faint, flushed dawn of a wan, sick hope, 



IRISH WAR POETRY. 1 83 

And over whose lives there dangled 

Ever the shame of the rope. 

I call to your mind Lord Edward ; 

Tone with his mangled throat ; 

Emmet high on the gallows ; 

O'Brien, Mitchel, and Meagher — 

Aye, and of newer note 

Names that Eire will not forget, 

Though some have faded in far-off lands, 

And some have passed by the hangman's hands, 

And some — are breathing yet. 

Not for these, O Eire, 

Not for these, or thee, 

Pipers, trumpeters, blaring loud, 

The throbbing drums and the colours flying, 

And the long-drawn muffled roar of the crowd, 

The voice of a human sea : 

Theirs it is to inherit 

Fame of a finer grace, 

In the self-renewing spirit 

And the untameable heart 

Ever defeated, yet undefeated, 

Of thy remembering race : 

For their names are treasured apart, 

And their memories green and sweet, 

On every hill-side and every mart, 

In every cabin, in every street, 

Of a land where to fail is more than to triumph, 

And victory less than defeat. 

Stephen Gwynn. 



THERE IS A GREY EYE. 

There is a grey eye that tears are thronging 
Fixed with longing on Eire's shore. 

It shall never see o'er the waste of waters 
The sons and daughters of Eire more. 

Its glance goes forth, o'er the brine wave-broken, 

Away from the firm-set oaken seat ; 
Many the tears from that grey eye streaming 

The faint far gleaming of Eire to meet. 

For indeed my soul is set upon Erin 

And all joys therein from Linnhe to Lent, 

On each fair prospect of proud Ultonia, 
Mild Momonia and Meath, the Green. 

Saint Columkille. 



184 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 



GEOFFREY KEATING TO HIS LETTER. 

[By Geoffrey Keating, the Historian, who died 1641.] 

For the sake of the dear little isle where I send you, 
For those who will welcome, and speed, and befriend you, 
For the green. hills of Erin that still hold my heart there, 
Though stain' d with the blood of the patriot and martyr — 

My blessing attend you ! 

My blessing attend you ! 

Adieu to her nobles, may honour ne'er fail them ! 
To her clergy adieu, may no false ones assail them ! 
Adieu to her people, adieu to her sages, 
Her historians, and all that illumine their pages ! 

In distance I hail them, 

More fondly I hail them ! 

Adieu to her plains, all enamell'd with flowers ! 
A thousand adieus to her hills and her bowers ! 
Adieu to the friendships and hearts long devoted ! 
Adieu to the lakes on whose bosom I've floated ! 

In youth's happy hours, 

In youth's happy hours ! 

Adieu to her fish-rivers murmuring through rushes ! 
Adieu to her meadows, her fields, wells, and bushes ! 
Adieu to her lawns, her moors, and her harbours ! 
Adieu, from my heart, to her forests and arbours, 

All vocal with thrushes, 

All vocal with thrushes ! 
185 



1 86 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Adieu to her harvests, for ever increasing ! 

And her hills of assemblies, all wisdom possessing ! 

And her people — oh ! where is there braver or better ? 

Then go to The Island of Saints, my dear letter ! 
And bring her my blessing, 
And bring her my blessing ! 



DARK ROSALEEN. 

O my dark Rosaleen, 

Do not sigh, do not weep ! 
The priests are on the ocean green, 

They march along the deep. 
There's wine from the royal Pope, 

Upon the ocean green ; 
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 
Shall give you health and help, and hope, 

My dark Rosaleen. 



Over hills, and through dales, 

Have I roamed for your sake ; 
All yesterday I sailed with sails 

On river and on lake. 
The Erne, at its highest flood, 

I dashed across unseen, 
For there was lightning in my blood, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
Oh ! there was lightning in my blood, 
Red lightning lightened through my blood, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 187 

All day long in unrest, 

To and fro do I move, 
The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, love ! 
The heart in my bosom faints 

To think of you, my Queen, 
My life of life, my saint of saints, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
To hear, your sweet a^,sad complaints, 
My life, my love, my saint of saints, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 



Woe and pain, pain and woe, 

Are my lot, night and noon, 
To see your bright face clouded so, 

Like to the mournful moon. 
But yet will I rear your throne 

Again in golden sheen ; 
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

Over dews, over sands, 

Will I fly for your weal : 
Your holy, delicate white hands 

Shall girdle me with steel. 
At home in your emerald bowers, 

From morning's dawn till e'en, 
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 
You'll think of me through daylight's hours, 
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 



lS8 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

I could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills, 
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, 

To heal your many ills ! 
And one beamy smile from you 

Would float like light between 
My toils and me, my own, my true, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 
Would give me .life and soul anew, 
A second life, a sSiul^new, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

O ! the Erne shall run red 

With redundance of blood, 
The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 

And flames wrap hill and wood, 
And gun-peal, and slogan cry 

Wake many a glen serene, 
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 

James Clarence Mangan. 



DIRGE OF RORY O'MORE. 

[A.D. 1642.] 

Up the sea-saddened valley at evening's decline, 
A heifer walks lowing — " the Silk of the Kine " x 
From the deep to the mountains she roams, and again 
From the mountain's green urn to the purple-rimmed 
main. 



1 One of the mystical names of Ireland. 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 1 89 

What seek'st thou, sad mother ? Thine own is not thine ! 
He dropped from the headland ; he sank in the brine ! 
'Twas a dream ! but in dreams at thy foot did he follow 
Through the meadow-sweet on by the marish and mallow ! 

Was he thine ? Have they slain him ? Thou seek'st 

him, not knowing 
Thyself, too, art theirs, thy sweet breath and sad lowing ! 
Thy gold horn is theirs ; thy dark eye and thy silk ! 
And, that which torments thee, thy milk is their milk ! 

'Twas no dream Mother Land ! 'Tis no dream, Innisfail ! 
Hope dreams, but grief dreams not — the grief of the 

Gael! 
From Leix and Ikerrin to Donegal's shore, 
Rolls the dirge of thy last and thy bravest — O'More ! 

Aubrey de Vere. 



AFTER AUGHRIM. 

Do you remember long ago, 

Kathaleen ? 
When your lover whispered low, 
" Shall I stay or shall I go, 

Kathaleen ? " 
And you answered proudly, " Go ! 
And join King James and strike a blow 

For the Green." 

Mavrone, your hair is white as snow, 

Kathaleen ; 
Your heart is sad and full of woe, 
Do you repent you bade him go, 

Kathaleen ? 
But quick you answered proudly, " No ! 
For better die with Sarsfield so 
Than live a slave without a blow 

For the Green." 

Arthur Gerald Geoghegan. 



1 90 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

A BARD'S LAMENT OVER HIS CHILDREN. 

[From the early 18th Century Irish. ,] 

O river of great kings and sons of kings ! 

O river of swift bark and silver fish ! 

O Boyne once famed for battle frays and sports, 

And heroes of the regal race of Conn ! 

Art thou grey-grown for all thy comeliness ? 

O aged woman of the grey-green pools ! 

O sorrowed Boyne ! O stream of many tears ! 

Where gone the golden glory of thy sires ? 

The fame of mighty Art, and wise Meltain — 

Art of the Arrows, Meltain of the spears, 

Sons of the hero-house of the O'Neill ? 

To thee, of yore, belonged red victory, 

When fires of Fenian wrath were kindled well, 

And blood-smeared bridles clanked on foaming steeds, 

As leagued legions swept to venging war. 

O river of great kings and sons of kings ! 

river of swift bark and silver fish ! 

1 lay my blessings on thee with my tears — 
For thou wilt watch forever o'er the grave 
Wherein my treasures sleep, close by thy side ; 
O aged woman of the grey-green pools ! 

O sorrowed Boyne ! O stream of many tears ! 

There lie my sons in all their lusty strength, 

There lies my girl in all her budding charms — 

Rory and Brian with their sister, Rose. 

These have I given sore against my will, 

O deep, dark grave to thee ! They were myself, 

My life, my love, my heart, my blood, my bone. 

The blessing of all men were on the three, 

The blessing of the folk that loved them well, 

From Holy Kells to ancient Drogheda. 

May Peace be on the grave wherein they lie 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. igi 

Beside the waters, royal stream of kings ! 
Here in the spreading lands of the O'Neill. 

O river of great kings and sons of kings ! 
O river of swift bark and silver fish ! 

aged woman of the grey-green pools ! 

1 lay my blessings on thee with my tears. 

Padric Gregory. 



THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE. 

The Little Black Rose shall be red at last ; 

What made it black but the March-wind dry, 
And the tear of the Widow that fell on it fast ? 

It shall redden the hills when June is nigh. 

The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last ; — 
What drove her forth but the dragon-fly ? 

In the Golden Vale she shall feed full fast, 
With her mild gold horn, and her slow dark eye. 

The wounded Wood- dove lies dead at last ; 

The pine long bleeding it shall not die ; 
Their song is secret. Mine ear it passed 

In a wind o'er the plains of Athenry. 

Aubrey De Vere. 



THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY. 

I sat within the valley green, 

I sat me with my true love. 
My sad heart strove the two between — 

The old love and the new love. 
The old for her, the new that made 

Me think on Ireland dearly ; 
While soft the wind blew down the glade 

And shook the golden barley. 



192 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

'Twas hard the woeful words to frame, 
To break the ties that bound us ; 
^ 'Twas harder still to bear the shame 
Of foreign chains around us. 
And so I said, " The mountain glen 

I'll seek at morning early, 
And join the brave United men," 
While soft winds shook the barley. 

While sad I kissed away her tears, 

My fond arms around her flinging, 
The foemen's shot burst on our ears, 

From out the wild wood ringing ; 
The bullet pierced my true love's side, 

In life's young spring so early, 
And on my breast in blood she died, 

When soft winds shook the barley. 

But blood for blood without remorse 

I've ta'en at Oulart Hollow ; 
I've placed my true love's clay-cold corse 

Where I full soon shall follow ; 
And round her grave I wander drear, 

Noon, night, and morning early, 
With breaking heart whene'er I hear 

The wind that shakes the barley ! 

• Robert Dwyer Joyce. 



THE IRISHMAN. 

The savage loves his native shore, 

Though rude the soil and chill the air ; 
Then well may Erin's sons adore 

Their isle, which Nature formed so fair. 
What flood reflects a shore so sweet 

As Shannon great, or pastoral Bann ? 
Or who a friend or foe can meet 

So generous as an Irishman ? 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. I93 

His hand is rash, his heart is warm, 

But honesty is still his guide ; 
None more repents a deed of harm, 

And none forgives with nobler pride. 
He may be duped, but won't be dared ; 

More fit to practise than to plan ; 
He dearly earns his poor reward, 

And spends it like an Irishman. 

If strange or poor, for you he'll pay, 

And guide to where you safe may be ; 
If you're his guest, while' er you stay, 

His cottage holds a jubilee. 
His inmost soul he will unlock, 

And if he may your secrets scan, 
Your confidence he scorns to mock, 

For faithful is an Irishman. 

By Honour bound, in woe or weal, 

Whate'er she bids he dares to do ; 
Try him with bribes — they won't prevail ; 

Prove him in fire — you'll find him true. 
He seeks not safety, let his post 

Be, where it ought, in danger's van ; 
And if the field of fame be lost, 

It won't be by an Irishman. 

James Orr. 



A SPINNING SONG. 

My love to fight the Saxon goes, 

And bravely shines his sword of steel, 
A heron's feather decks his brows, 

And a spur on either heel ; 
His steed is blacker than a sloe, 

And fleeter than the falling star ; 
Amid the surging ranks he'll go 

And shout for joy of war. 



194 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool 
drift and dwindle, 
Oh ! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of 
steel, 
Hark ! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old- 
fashioned ditties 
To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel. 

My love is pledged to Ireland's fight ; 

My love would die for Ireland's weal, 
To win her back her ancient right, 

And make her foemen reel. 
Oh, close I'll clasp him to my breast, 

When homeward from the war he comes ; 
The fires shall light the mountain's crest, 

The valley peal with drums. 

Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool 
drift and dwindle, 
Oh ! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat 
of steel. 
Hark ! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old- 
fashioned ditties 
To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel. 

John Francis O'Donnell. 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

With deep affection and recollection 
I often think of the Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, 

Fling round my cradle their magic spells. 
On this I ponder, where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee, 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 195 

I have heard bells chiming full many a clime in, 

Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine ; 
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate, 

But all their music spoke nought to thine ; 
For memory, dwelling on each proud swelling 
Of the belfry knelling its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the River Lee. 

I have heard bells tolling " old Adrian's mole "in, 

Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, 
With cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious 

In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame ; 
But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly. 
Oh ! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the River Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and Kiosk, O ! 

In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, 
And loud in the air calls men to prayer 

From the tapering summit of tall minarets. 
Such empty phantom I freely grant 'em, 
But there's an anthem more dear to me : 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the River Lee. 

Francis Sylvester Mahony 
(Father Prout.) 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 

Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? 

Who blushes at the name ? 
When cowards mock the patriot's fate, 

Who hangs his head for shame ? 



I96 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

He's all a knave, or half a slave, 
Who slights his country thus ; 

But a true man, like you, man, 
Will fill your glass with us. 

We drink the memory of the brave, 

The faithful and the few ; 
Some lie far off beyond the wave, 

Some sleep in Ireland, too ; 
All, all are gone ; but still lives on 

The fame of those who died ; 
All true men, like you, men, 

Remember them with pride. 

Some on the shores of distant lands 

Their weary hearts have laid, 
And by the stranger's heedless hands 

Their lonely graves were made ; 
But, though their clay be far away 

Beyond the Atlantic foam, 
In true men, like you, men, 

Their spirit's still at home. 

The dust of some is Irish earth, 

Among their own they rest, 
And the same land that gave them birth 

Has caught them to her breast ; 
And we will pray that from their clay 

Full many a race may start 
Of true men, like you, men, 

To act as brave a part. 

They rose in dark and evil days 

To right their native land ; 
They kindled here a living blaze 

That nothing shall withstand. 
Alas ! that Might can vanquish Right — 

They fell and passed away ; 
But true men, like you, men, 

Are plenty here to-day. 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. I97 

Then here's their memory — may it be 

For us a guiding light, 
To cheer our strife for liberty, 

And teach us to unite — 
Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, 

Though sad as theirs your fate, 
And true men be you, men, 

Like those of Ninety-Eight ! 

John Kells Ingram. 



SONG FOR JULY 12TH, 1843. 

Come, pledge again thy heart and hand — 

One grasp that ne'er shall sever ; 
Our watchword be — " Our native land " — 

Our motto — " Love for ever." 
And let the Orange lily be 

Thy badge, my patriot brother — 
The everlasting green for me ; 

And we for one another. 

Behold how green the gallant stem 

On which the flower is blowing ; 
How in one heavenly breeze and beam 

Both flower and stem are glowing. 
The same good soil, sustaining both, 

Makes both united flourish, 
But cannot give the Orange growth 

And cease the Green to nourish. 

Yea, more — the hand that plucks the flower 

Will vainly strive to cherish ; 
The stem blooms on — but in that hour 

The flower begins to perish. 
Regard them, then, of equal worth 

While lasts their genial weather ; 
The time's at hand when into earth 

The two shall sink together. 



I98 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Ev'n thus be, in our country's cause, 

Our party feelings blended ; 
Till lasting peace, from equal laws, 

On both shall have descended. 
Till then the Orange lily be 

Thy badge, my patriot brother — 
The everlasting Green for me ; 

And we for one another. 



John De Jean Frazer. 



MEMORIES. 

I left two Loves on a distant strand, 
One fair and young and white of hand, 
One fair and old and sadly grand, 
My wedded wife and my native land. 

One tarrieth sad and seriously 
Beneath the roof that mine should be ; 
One sitteth sibyl-like by the sea, 
Chanting a grave song mournfully. 

A little life I have not seen 
Lies by the heart that mine hath been ; 
A cypress wreath darkles now, I ween, 
Over the brow of my Love in green. 

The mother and wife shall pass away ; 
Her hands be dust, her lips be clay ; 
But my other Love on earth shall stay 
And live in the life of a better day. 

Ere we were born my first Love was, 
My sires were heirs to her holy cause ; 
And she yet shall sit in the world's applause, 
A mother of men and blessed laws. 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 1 99 

I hope and strive the while I sigh, 
For I know my first Love cannot die ; 
From the chain of woes that loom so high 
Her reign shall reach to Eternity. 

Thomas D'Arcy McGee, 



TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE. 

I sit beside my darling's grave 

Who in the prison died, 
And though my tears fall thick and fast 

I think of him with pride ; 
Ay, softly fall my tears like dew 
For one to God and Ireland true. 

" I love my God o'er all," he said, 

" And then I love my land, 
And next I love my Lily sweet 

Who pledged me her white hand ; 
To each, to all, I'm ever true, 
To God, to Ireland, and to you." 

No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed, 

Or softly raised his head ; 
He fell asleep and woke in heaven 

Ere I knew he was dead ; 
Yet why should I my darling rue ? 
He was to God and Ireland true. 

Oh, 'tis a glorious memory ; 

I'm prouder than a queen 
To sit beside my hero's grave 

And think on what has been : 
And oh, my darling, I am true 
To God, to Ireland, and to you ! 

Ellen O'Leary. 



200 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



I GIVE MY HEART TO THEE. 

I give my heart to thee, O motherland, 
I, if none else, recall the sacred womb. 
I, if none else, behold the loving eyes 
Bent ever on thy myriad progeny 
Who care not nor regard thee as they go, 

tender, sorrowing, weeping, hoping land, 

1 give my heart to thee, O motherland ! 

I give my heart to thee, O fatherland, 
Fast-anchored on thy own eternal soul, 
Rising with cloudy mountains to the skies, 

proud, strong land, unstooping, stern of rule, 
Me rule as ever ; let me feel thy might ; 

Let me go forth with thee now and for aye. 

1 give my heart to thee, O fatherland ! 

I give my heart to thee, heroic land, 
To thee or in thy morning when the sun 
Flashed on thy giant limbs — thy lurid noon — 
Or in thy depth of night, fierce-thoughted one — 
Wrestling with phantoms of thy own wild soul, 
Or, stone-still, silent, waiting for the dawn. 
I give my heart to thee, heroic land ! 

I give my heart to thee, ideal land, 
Far-soaring sister of the starry throng; 

fleet of wing, what journeyings are thine, 
What goal, what god attracts thee ? What unseen 
Glory reflected makes thy face a flame ? 

Leave me not ; where thou goest, let me go. 

1 give my heart to thee, ideal land ! 

Standish O' Grady. 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 201 



SONG FROM THE BACKWOODS. 

Deep in Canadian woods we've met, 

From one bright island flown ; 
Great is the land we tread, but yet 

Our hearts are with our own. 
And ere we leave this shanty small, 
While fades the Autumn day, 
We'll toast Old Ireland ! 
Dear Old Ireland 1 
Ireland, boys, hurrah ! 

We've heard her faults a hundred times, 

The new ones and the old, 
In songs and sermons, rants and rhymes, 

Enlarged some fifty-fold, 
But take them all, the great and small, 
And this we've got to say : — 
Here's dear Old Ireland ! 
Good Old Ireland ! 
Ireland, boys, hurrah ! 

We know that brave and good men tried 

To snap her rusty chain, 
That patriots suffered, martyrs died, 

And all, 'tis said, in vain ; 
But no, boys, no ! a glance will show 
How far they've won their way — 
Here's good Old Ireland ! 
Loved Old Ireland ! 
Ireland, boys, hurrah ! 

We've seen the wedding and the wake, 

The patron and the fair ; 
And lithe young frames at the dear old games 

In the kindly Irish air ; 



202 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY, 

And the loud " hurroo !" we have heard it too, 
And the thundering " Clear the way ! " 
Here's gay Old Ireland ! 
Dear Old Ireland! 
Ireland, boys, hurrah ! 

And well we know in the cool grey eves 

When the hard day's work is o'er, 
How soft and sweet are the words that greet 

The friends who meet once more ; 
With " Mary machree ! " " My Pat • 'tis he !" 
And " My own heart night and day ! " 
Ah, fond Old Ireland ! 
Dear Old Ireland ! 
Ireland, boys, hurrah ! 

And happy and bright are the groups that pass 

From their peaceful homes for miles 
O'er fields, and roads, and hills, to Mass, 

When Sunday morning smiles ; 

And deep the zeal their true hearts feel 

When low they kneel and pray. 

Oh, dear Old Ireland ! 

Blest Old Ireland ! 

Ireland, boys, hurrah ! 

But deep in Canadian woods we've met, 

And we never may see again 
The Dear Old Isle where our hearts are set 

And our first fond hopes remain. 
But, come, fill up another cup, 
And with every sup let's say — 
" Here's dear Old Ireland ! 
Loved Old Ireland ! 
Ireland, boys, hurrah ! " 

T. D. Sullivan. 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 203 



AFTER DEATH. 



Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, oh, my country ? 

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory ? 
Or shall the darkness close around them ere the sun- 
blaze 

Break at last upon thy story ? 

When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, 

As sweet new sister hail thee, 
Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, 

That have known but to bewail thee ? 

Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, 
When all men their tribute bring thee ? 

Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor, 
When all poets' mouths shall sing thee ? 

Ah ! the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings 

Of thy exiled sons returning, 
I should hear, tho' dead and mouldered, and the grave- 
damps 

Should not chill my bosom's burning. 

Ah ! the tramp of feet victorious ! I should hear them 

'Mid the shamrocks and the mosses, 
And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver 

As a captive dreamer tosses. 

I should turn and rend the cere-cloths round me — 

Giant sinews I should borrow — 
Crying, " Oh, my brothers, I have also loved her 

In her loneliness and sorrow ! 

" Let me join with you the jubilant procession, 

Let me chant with you her story ; 
Then, contented, I shall go back to the shamrocks, 

Now mine eyes have seen her glory ! " 

Fanny Parnell 



204 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



AN IRISH FACE. 



Not her own sorrow only that hath place 

Upon yon gentle face. 

Too slight have been her childhood's years to gain 

The imprint of such pain. 

It hid behind her laughing hours, and wrought 

Each curve in saddest thought 

On brow and lips and eyes. With subtle art 

It made the little heart 

Through its young joyous beatings to prepare 

A quiet shelter there, 

Where the immortal sorrows might find a home. 

And many there have come ; 

Bowed in a mournful mist of golden hair 

Deirdre hath entered there. 

And shrouded in a fall of pitying dew, 

Weeping the friend he slew, 

The Hound of Ulla lies with those who shed 

Tears of the Wild Geese fled. 

And all the lovers on whom fate hath warred 

Cutting the silver cord 

Enter, and softly breath by breath they mould 

The young heart to the old — 

The old protest, the old pity, whose power 

Are gathering to the hour 

When their knit silence shall be mightier far 

Than leagued empires are. 

And dreaming of the sorrow on this face 

We grow of lordlier race, 

Could shake the rooted rampart of the hills 

To shield her from all ills, 

And through a deep adoring pity won 

Grow what we dream upon. 

A.E. 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 205 



THE DARK MAN. 

Rose o s the world, she came to my bed 
And changed the dreams of my heart and head ; 
For joy of mine she left grief of hers 
And garlanded me with the prickly furze. 

Rose o' the world, they go out and in, 
And watch me dream and my mother spin ; 
And they pity the tears on my sleeping face 
While my soul's away in a fairy place. 

Rose o' the world, they have words galore, 
For wide's the swing of my mother's door ; 
And soft they speak of my darkened brain, 
But what do they know of my heart's dear pain ? 

Rose o' the world, the grief you give 
Is worth all days that a man may live ; 
Is worth all prayers that the colleens say 
On the night that darkens the wedding-day. 

Rose o' the world, what man would wed 
When he might remember your face instead ? 
Might go to his grave with the blessed pain 
Of hungering after your face again ? 

Rose o' the world, they may talk their fill, 
But dreams are good, and my life stands still, 
While the neighbours talk by their fires astir ; 
But my fiddle knows, and I talk to her. 

Nora Hopper. 



IRISH MEMORIES. 

Oh, green and fresh your English sod 
With daisies sprinkled over ; 

But greener far were the fields I trod, 
And the honeyed Irish clover. 



206 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Oh, well your skylark cleaves the blue 

To bid the sun good-morrow ; 
He has not the bonny song I knew 

High over an Irish furrow. 

And often, often, I'm longing still, 

This gay and golden weather, 
For my father's face by an Irish hill, 

And he and I together. 

George A. Greene. 



CELTIC SPEECH. 

Never forgetful silence fall on thee, 

Nor younger voices overtake thee, 

Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee, 

Old music heard by Mona of the sea ; 

And where with moving melodies there break thee, 

Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee. 

Like music lives, nor may that music die, 

Still in the far, fair Gaelic places ; 

The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces, 

Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy ; 

The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces, 

And wakes remembrance of great things gone by. 

Like music by the desolate Land's End, 
Mournful forgetfulness hath broken ; 
No more words kindred to the winds are spoken, 
Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expend 
That strength, whereof the unalterable token 
Remains wild music, even to the world's end. 

Lionel Johnson. 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 20y 



A SONG OF FREEDOM. 

In Cavan of little lakes, 

As I was walking with the wind, 
And no one seen beside me there, 

There came a song into my mind ; 
It came as if the whispered voice 

Of one, but none of human kind, 
Who walked with me in Cavan then, 

And he invisible as wind. 

On Urris of Inish-Owen, 

As I went up the mountain side, 
The brook that came leaping down 

Cried to me — for joy it cried ; 
And when from off the summit far 

I looked o'er land and water wide, 
I was more joyous than the brook 

That met me on the mountain side. 

To Ara of Connacht's isles, 

As I went sailing o'er the sea. 
The wind's word, the brook's word, 

The wave's word, was plain to me — 
As we are, though she is not, 

As we are, shall Banba be — 
There is no king can rule the wind, 

There is no fetter for the sea. 

Alice Milligan. 



IRELAND. 

Ireland, O Ireland ! centre of my longings, 
Country of my fathers, home of my heart ! 

Overseas you call me ; Why an exile from me ? 
Wherefore sea-severed, long leagues apart ? 



208 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

As the shining salmon, homeless in the sea depths, 
Hears the river call him, scents out the land, 

Leaps and rejoices in the meeting of the waters, 
Breasts weir and torrent, nests in the sand. 

Lives there and loves ; yet with the year's returning, 
Rusting in the river, pines for the sea, 

Sweeps back again to the ripple of the tideway, 
Roamer of the waters, vagabond and free. 

Wanderer am I like the salmon of thy rivers ; 

London is my ocean, murmurous and deep, 
Tossing and vast ; yet through the roar of London 

Comes to me thy summons, calls me in sleep. 

Pearly are the skies in the country of my fathers, 
Purple are thy mountains, home of my heart. 

Mother of my yearning, love of all my longings, 
Keep me in remembrance, long leagues apart. 

Stephen Lucius Gwynn. 



AN APPEAL. 

Days of unstinted splendour, days of unceasing rain, 
Days all beringed with pleasure, days all bestreaked with 

pain. 
Hark ! for I hear them calling, from over the rocks and 

the sand ; 
Hark ! for I hear them calling, far off in that wild west 

land ; 
Up from the hearts of the mountains, cold, ascetic, severe ; 
Up from the breasts of the streams, brown, bejewelled, 

and clear ; 
Up from thy oozy depths, loud-tongued friend of the blast, 
They rise, they return, they throng ; ghosts of the days 

that are past. 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 209 

Past and dim, not dead, they live, as our lost ones live, 
In our eyes, in our hearts, in our souls, with all that they 

had to give, 
And the sound of Atlantic pervades them, and seems in 

our ears from afar, 
Like the sound of Thy voice, O Eternal, whose runnels 

and ripples we are. 
Thine were they ere we knew them, Giver of joy and pain ; 
Thine those days, not ours ; to Thee they returned again. 
For what are the drops and the streams to the infinite 

sweep of the sea ; 
And what are our days or our years, Master of Aeons, 

to Thee ? 
And the days yet unborn shall be good, and the children 

shall walk in Thy light ; 
Say, shall it not be so, who bringest the day from the 

night ? 
Look ! for I see them coming, far over the rocks and the 

sand ; 

Look ! for I see them coming, away to that wild west land. 
Our own west land, which knows us, w T hose sons and 

daughters are we, 
Waste, untoward to others, dear as a mother to me. 
Whose days shall yet be good, whose daughters and sons 

shall rejoice. 
Standing erect and proud , in the old green home of their 

choice, 

So let it be, O Lord ; let Thy people be glad in Thy light, 
Though we, who plead, pass and perish, wind-blown 

waifs of a night. 

Emily Lawless. 



IRISH MELODIES. 

[Inscribed to the memory of Catherine Hayes.] 

A voice beside the dim enchanted river, 

Out of the twilight, where the brooding trees 

Hear Shannon's Druid waters chant for ever 
Tales of dead Kings and Bards and Shanachies ; 



210 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

A girl's young voice out of the twilight, singing 
Old songs beside the legendary stream ; 

A girl's clear voice, o'er the wan waters ringing, 
Beats with its wild wings at the Gates of Dream. 

The flagger-leaves whereon shy dew-drops glisten 

Are swaying, swaying gently to the sound, 
The meadow-sweet and spearmint, as they listen, 

Breathe wistfully their wizard balm around ; 
And there, alone with her lone heart and heaven, 

Thrushlike she sings, and lets her voice go free, 
Her soul of all its hidden longing shriven 

Soars on wild wings with her wild melody. 

Sweet in its plaintive Irish modulations, 

Her fresh young voice, tuned to old sorrow, seems 
The passionate cry of countless generations, 

Keens in her breast as there she sings and dreams. 
No more sad voice, for now the dawn is breaking 

Through the long night, through Ireland's night of 
tears, 
New songs wake in the morn of her awaking 

From the enchantment of nine hundred years. 

John Todhunter. 



LAMENT FOR THOMAS DAVIS. 

I walked through Ballinderry in the spring-time, 

When the bud was on the tree ; 
And I said, in every fresh-ploughed field beholding 

The sowers striding free, 
Scattering broadside forth the corn in golden plenty 

On the quick seed-clasping soil, 
" Even such this day, among the fresh-stirred hearts of 
Erin, 

Thomas Davis, is thy toil. " 



IRISH NATIONAL POETRY. 211 

I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer, 

And saw the salmon leap ; 
And I said, as I beheld the gallant creatures 

Spring glittering from the deep, 
Through the spray, and through the prone heaps striving 
onward 

To the calm clear streams above, 
" So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom, Thomas 
Davis, 

In thy brightness of strength and love." 



I stood in Derrybawn in the autumn, 

And I heard the eagle call, 
With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation 

That filled the wide mountain hall, 
O'er the bare deserted place of his plundered eyrie ; 

And I said, as he screamed and soared, 
" So callest thou, thou wrathful soaring Thomas Davis, 

For a nation's rights restored ! " 



And, alas ! to think but now, and thou art lying, 

Dear Davis, dead at thy mother's knee ; 
And I, no mother near, on my own sick-bed, 

That face on earth shall never see ; 
I may lie and try to feel that I am dreaming, 

I may lie and try to say, " Thy will be done," 
But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin 

For the loss of the noble son ! 



Young husbandman of Erin's fruitful seed-time, 

In the fresh track of danger's plough ! 
Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous furrow, 

Girt with freedom's seed-sheets, now ? 
Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowledge 

The daunting weed and the bitter thorn, 
Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful planting 

Against the Resurrection morn ? 



212 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Young salmon of the flood-tide of freedom 

That swells round Erin's shore ! 
Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive torrent 

Of bigotry and hate no more ; 
Drawn downward by their prone material instinct, 

Let them thunder on their rocks and foam — 
Thou hast leapt, aspiring soul, to founts beyond their 
raging, 

Where troubled waters never come ! 



But I grieve not, Eagle of the empty eyrie, 

That thy wrathful cry is still ; 
And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners 

Are heard to-day on Earth's hill ; 
Better far, if brothers' war be destined for us 

(God avert that horrid day I pray), 
That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal, 

Thy warm heart should be cold in clay. 

But my trust is strong in God, Who made us brothers, 

That He will not suffer their right hands, 
Which thou hast joined in holier rites than wedlock, 

To draw opposing brands. 
Oh, many a tuneful tongue that thou madest vocal 

Would lie cold and silent then ; 
And songless long once more, should of ten- widowed Erin 

Mourn the loss of her brave young men. 

Oh, brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise, 

'Tis on you my hopes are set, 
In manliness, in kindliness, in justice, 

To make Erin a nation yet ; 
Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing — 

In union or in severance, free and strong— 
And if God grant this, then, under God, to Thomas Davis 

Let the greater praise belong. 

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 



BLESSINGS. 

It's what I thank God for each night — 
A little cabin that's mine by right, 
The strength of a man for work or fight, 
And food and light. 

It's what I thank God for each day — 
A wife with never too much to say, 
A wife, a dog, and a child for play ; 
For those I'd pray. 

I thank God for the land I tread, 
A pipe to smoke and an easy bed, 
The thatch I made that's over my head, 
And daily bread. 

I thank God for an Irish name, 
And a son of mine to bear the same, 
My own to love me and none to blame 
No more I'd claim. 

Winifred M. Letts. 



214 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 



THE SLAYING OF CONBEG. 

[A beloved hound of Fionn's which Goll Mac Morna 
drowned in despite of Fionn.] 

Sore grief to me, Conbeg, that you are drowned ; 

My little hound, for brightness without peer. 
Never was one so swift or deft of foot 

Seen in pursuit of rushing boar or deer 

Sore grief to me, Conbeg, that you lie drowned ; 

My little hound, whose bay was music clear. 
Never was one so deft or swift of pace 

Found in the chase of proud, high-stepping deer. 

Sore grief to me, Conbeg, that you lie drowned 
Upon the mighty mounded grey-green sea. 

Your cruel loss let loose a flood of strife — 
A fill of sorrow, alas ! through life to me. 

Translated from " The Colloquy of The Ancients." 



THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS. 

I go to knit two clans together, 

Our clan and this clan unseen of yore. 

Our clan fears naught ; but I go, oh, whither ? 
This day I go from my mother's door. 
215 



2l6 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Thou, redbreast, singest the old song over, 

Though many a time hast thou sung it before ; 

They never sent thee to some strange new lover 
To sing a new song by my mother's door. 

I stepped from my little room down by the ladder — 
The ladder that never so shook before ; 

I was sad last night, to-day I am sadder, 
Because I go from my mother's door. 

The last snow melts upon bush and bramble, 
The gold bars shine on the forest's floor ; 

Shake not, thou leaf ; it is I must tremble, 
Because I go from my mother's door. 

From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me, 
I trailed a rose-bush our grey bawn o'er ; 

The creed and the letters our old bard taught me ; 
My days were sweet by my mother's door. 

My little white goat, that with raised feet huggest 
The oak stock, thy horns in the ivy frore ; 

Could I wrestle like thee — how the wreaths thou tuggest ! 
I never would move from my mother's door. 

Oh, weep no longer, my nurse and mother ; 

My foster-sister, weep not so sore ; 
You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother — 

Alone I go from my mother's door. 

Farewell, my wolf-hound, that slew MacOwing, 
As he caught me and far through the thickets bore, 

My heifer Alb in the green vale lowing, 
My cygnet's nest upon Loma's shore. 

He has killed ten Chiefs, this Chief that plights me, 
His hand is like that of the giant Balor ; 

But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me, 
And the great stone dragon above his door. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 21 7 

Had I daughters nine, with me they should tarry ; 

They should sing old songs ; they should dance at 
my door. 
They should grind at the quern, no need to marry ! 

Oh, when shall this marriage day be o'er ? 

Had I buried, like Moirin, three mates already, 
I might say, three husbands, then why not four ? 

But my hand is cold, and my foot unsteady, 
Because I never was married before ! 

Aubrey de Vkre. 



EAMONN an CHNUIC 

[From the Irish.] 

" Now who is without 
With a heart-piercing shout 

Beating my bolted door ? " 
"lam Ned of the Hill, 
Wet, weary and chill 

From long walking the mountain-side o'er. 

" Oh, bright love and dear, 
What could I do here 

But cover you up with my gown ? 
While shots thick and true 
They rained upon you, 

Till together in death we went down ! " 

" Not a comrade I know, 
As I desolate go 

Out under the snow and the frost ; 
My team loose from the yoke, 
My fallows unbroke, 

My land to be evermore lost." 



2l8 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

" Not a friend have I got — 
I am heavy for that — 

Late or early to take Eamonn in ; 
And so I must flee 
East over the sea, 

Where strangers are kinder than kin ! " 



THE BLIND POET. 

[From the Irish of Raftevy.} 

I am the Poet Rafterty 
Full of hope and charity ; 

With eyes that at the day but guess, 
With gentleness in misery. 

West I wander through the night 
By the light of my own mind ; 

Weak and wearied I contend, 
Till my journey's end I find. 

I, who once in Halls of State 
Guerdon great received for song, 

Harp, amid the rain and wind, 
To a kind but coinless throng. 



MY ULICK. 

My Ulick is sturdy and strong 

And light is his foot on the heather ; 
And truth has been wed to his tongue 

Since first we were talking together ; 
And though he is lord of no lands, 

Nor castle, nor cattle, nor dairy, 
My boy has his health and his hands, 

And a heart-load of love for his Mary. 
And what should a maiden wish more ? 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY 2IO, 

One day at the heel of the eve — 

I mind it was snowing and blowing — 
My mother was knitting, I b'lieve ; 

For me, — I was singing and sewing ; 
My father had read the news o'er, 

And as he sat humming, " We'll wake 'em," 
My Ulick stepped in at the door, 

As white as the weather could make him. 
True love never cooled with a frost ! 

He shook the snow out of his frieze, 

And drew up a chair by my father ; 
My spirits leaped up in my eyes 

To see the two sitting together. 
They talked of our land and its wrongs, 

Till both were as mad as starvation ; 
Then Ulick sang three or four songs, 

And closed with " Hurrah for the Nation ! " 
Oh, Ulick 's an Irishman still ! 

My father caught hold of his hand ; 

Their hearts melted into each other ; 
While tears that she couldn't command 

Broke loose from the eyes of my mother. 
" Our freedom," she sighed ; " Wirrasthrue ! 

A woman can say little in it ; 
But had it to come by you two, 

I've a guess at the way we would win it. 
'Twould not be by weeping, I swear ! " 

Francis Davis. 



220 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

DRAHERIN O MACHREE. 1 

Air : " Dr a her in O Machree." 

I grieve when I think on the dear happy days of my youth, 

When all the bright dreams of this faithless world seem'd 
truth ; 

When I stray'd thro' the green wood, as gay as a mid- 
summer bee, 

In brotherly love with my Draherin O Machree ! 

Together we lay in the sweet-scented meadows to rest, 
Together we watch 'd the gay lark as he sung o'er his nest, 
Together we plucked the red fruit of the fragrant hawtree, 
And I loved, as a sweetheart, my Draherin O Machree ! 

His form was straight as a hazel that grows in the glen, 
His manners were courteous, and social, and gay amongst 

men ; 
His bosom was white as the lily on summer's green lea — 
His God's brightest image was Draherin O Machree ! 

Oh ! sweet were his words as the honey that falls in the 

night, 
And his young smiling face like the May-bloom was 

fresh, and as bright ; 
His eyes were like dew on the flower of the sweet apple 

tree ; 
My heart's spring and summer was Draherin O Machree ! 

He went to the wars when proud England united with 

France ; 
His regiment was first in the red-battle-charge to 

advance 2 ; 
But when night drew its veil o'er the gory and life-wasting 

fray, 
Pale, bleeding, and cold lay my Draherin O Machree ! 

1 Little brother of my heart. 

2 Referring to the Battle of Inkerman. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 221 

Now I'm left to weep, like the sorrowful bird of the night; 
This earth and its pleasures no more shall afford me 

delight ; 
The dark narrow grave is the only sad refuge for me, 
Since I lost my heart's darling — my Draherin O Machree ! 

Michael Hogan. 



DUBLIN BAY. 

Oh, Bay of Dublin, how my heart you're troublin', 

Your beauty haunts me like a fever dream ; 
Like frozen fountains that the sun sets bubblin', 

My heart's blood warms when I but hear your name. 
And never till this life's pulsation ceases, 

My earliest, latest thought you'll fail to be. 
Oh, none here knows how very fair that place is, 

And no one cares how dear it is to me. 

Sweet Wicklow mountains, the soft sunlight sleepin' 

On your green uplands is a picture rare ; 
You crowd around me, like young maidens peepin' 

And puzzlin' me to say which is most fair, 
As tho' you longed to see your own sweet faces 

Reflected in that smooth and silver sea. 
My fondest blessin' on those lovely places, 

Tho' no one cares how dear they are to me. 

How often, when alone at work I'm sittin', 

And musing sadly on the days of yore, 
I think I see my pretty Katie knittin', 

The childer playin' round the cabin door ; 
I think I see the neighbours' kindly faces 

All gathered round, their long-lost friend to see ; 
Though none here knows how very fair that place is, 

Heav'n knows how dear my poor home was to me. 

Lady Dufferin. 



222 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



THE KILRUDDERY HUNT. 

In seventeen hundred and forty-four 
The fifth of December, I think 'twas no more, 
At five in the morning by most of the clocks, 
We rode from Kilruddery in search of a fox. 
The Loughlinstown landlord, the brave Owen Bray, 
And Johnny Adair, 1 too, were with us that day ; 
Joe Debil, Hal Preston, those huntsmen so stout — 
Dick Holmes, some few others, and so we set out. 

We cast off our hounds for an hour or more, 

When Wanton set up a most tuneable roar ; 

" Hark, Wanton " cried Joe, and the rest were not slack, 

For Wanton's no trifler esteemed by . the pack ; 

Old Bounty and Collier came readily in, 

And every hound joined in the musical din ; 

Had Diana been there, she'd been pleased to the life, 

And one of the lads got a goddess to wife. 

Ten minutes past nine was the time of the day 
When Reynard broke cover, and this was his way — 
As strong from Killegar, as if he could fear none, 
Away he brushed round by the house of Kilternan, 
To Carrickmines thence, and to Cherrywood then, 
Steep Shankhill he climbed, and to Bally man glen, 
Bray Common he crossed, leap'd Lord Anglesey's wall, 
And seemed to say, " Little I care for you all." 

He ran Bushes Grove up to Carbury Byrnes — 
Joe Debil, Hal Preston, kept leading by turns ; 
The earth it was open, yet he was so stout, 
Tho' he might have got in, still he chose to keep out ; 

1 No doubt, son of Robin Adair, of Holly Park, near Bray, who 
was member of the Irish Parliament early in last century, and 
whom our Scotch friends annexed along with the air " Aileen 
Aroon." 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 223 

To Malpas high hills was the way that he flew, 
At Dalkey's stone common we had him in view ; 
He drove on to Bullock, he slunk Glenageary, 
And so on to Monkstown, where Larry grew weary. 

Thro' Rochestown wood like an arrow he passed, 
And came to the steep hills of Dalkey at last ; 
There gallantly plunged himself into the sea, 
And said in his heart, " None can now follow me." 
But soon, to his cost, he perceived that no bounds 
Could stop the pursuit of the staunch-mettled hounds ; 
His policy here did not serve him a rush, 
Five couple of Tartars were hard at his brush. 

To recover the shore then again was his drift ; 
But ere he could reach to the top of the clift, 
He found both of speed and of daring a lack, 
Being waylaid and killed by the rest of the pack. 
At his death there were present the lads I have sung, 
Save Larry, who, riding a garron, was flung. 
Thus ended at length a most delicate chase, 
That held us five hours and ten minutes' space. 

Thomas Mozeen. 



A DREAM. 

I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night ; 
I went to the window to see the sight ; 
All the Dead that ever I knew 
Going one by one and two by two. 

On they pass'd, and on they pass'd ; 
Townsfellows all, from first to last ; 
Born in the moonlight of the lane, 
Quench 'd in the heavy shadow again. 







224 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Schoolmates, marching as when they play'd 
At soldiers once — but now more staid ; 
Those were the strangest sight to me 
Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea. 

Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too ; 
Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to ; 
Some but a day in their churchyard bed ; 
Some that I had not known were dead. 

A long, long crowd — where each seem'd lonely, 
Yet of them all there was one, one only, 
Raised a head or look'd my way ; 
She linger 'd a moment — she might not stay. 

How long since I saw that fair pale face ! 
Ah ! Mother dear ! might I only place 
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest, 
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest ! 

On, on, a moving bridge they made 
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade, 
Young and old, women and men ; 
Many long-forgot, but remember'd then, 

And first there came a bitter laughter ; 
A sound of tears a moment after ; 
And then a music so lofty and gay, 
That every morning, day by day, 
I strive to recall it if I may. 

William Allingham. 



A PEASANT WOMAN'S SONG. 

It's lonely in the night, when Pat 

Is sleeping by my side, 
I lie awake, and no one knows 

The big tears that I've cried ; 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 225 

For a little voice still calls me back 

To my far, far counthrie, 
And nobody can hear it spake, 

Oh ! nobody but me. 

There is a little spot of ground 

Behind the chapel wall, 
It's nothing but a tiny mound, 

Without a stone at all. 

It rises like my heart just now, 

It makes a dawny hill ; 
It's from below the voice comes out, 

I cannot keep it still. 

Oh ! little Voice ; ye call me back 

To my far, far counthrie, 
And nobody can hear ye spake, 

Oh ! nobody but me. 

Dion Boucicault. 



KITTY OF COLERAINE. 

As beautiful Kitty one morn was tripping 

With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, 
When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled, 

And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain. 
Oh ! what shall I do now ? 'Twas looking at you, now ; 

Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again ; 
Twas the pride of my dairy ! O Barney O'Cleary, 

You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine ! 

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, 

That such a misfortune should give her such pain ; 
A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her, 

She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again 
'Twas haymaking season — I can't tell the reason — 

Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain ; 
For very soon afther poor Kitty's disaster 

The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. 

Anon. 



226 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



THE LOW-BACKED CAR. 

When first I saw sweet Peggy, 

'Twas on a market day, 
A low-backed car she drove, and sat 

Upon a truss of hay ; 
But when that hay was blooming grass 
And decked with flowers of Spring, 
No flow'r was there that could compare 
With the blooming girl I sing. 
As she sat in the low-backed car, 
The man at the turnpike bar 
Never asked for the toll, 
But just rubbed his ould poll 
And looked after the low-backed car. 

In battle's wild commotion, 

The proud and mighty Mars, 
With hostile scythes, demands his tithes 

Of death — in warlike cars ; 
While Peggy, peaceful goddess, 

Has darts in her bright eye, 
That knock men down in the market town, 
As right and left they fly — 

While she sits in her low-backed car, 
Than battle more dangerous far — 
For the doctor's art 
Cannot cure the heart 
That is hit from that low-backed car. 

Sweet Peggy, round her car, sir, 

Has strings of ducks and geese, 
But the scores of hearts she slaughters 

By far outnumber these ; 
While she among her poultry sits, 

Just like a turtle-dove, 
Well worth the cage, I do engage, 

Of the blooming God of Love ! 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 227 

While she sits in her low-backed car, 
The lovers come near and far, 

And envy the chicken 

That Peggy is pickin', 
As she sits in the low-backed car. 

Oh, I'd rather own that car, sir, 

With Peggy by my side, 
Than a coach-and-four and goold galore, 

And a lady for my bride ; 
For the lady would sit forninst me 

On a cushion made with taste, 
While Peggy would sit beside me 
With my arm around her waist — 

While we drove in the low-backed car, 
To be married by Father Maher, 
Oh, my heart would beat high 
At her glance and her sigh — 
Though it beat in a low-backed car. 

Samuel Lover. 



THE " DARK GIRL " BY THE " HOLY WELL. 

" Mother ! is that the passing bell, 

Or yet the midnight chime ? 
Or rush of angels' golden wings ? 

Or is it near the time — 
The time when God, they say, comes down 

This weary v/orld upon, 
With Holy Mary at His right, 

And at His left St. John ? 

"I'm dumb ! my heart forgets to throb ; 

My blood forgets to run ; 
But vain my sighs — in vain I sob — 

God's will must still be done. 
I hear but tone of warning bell, 

For holy priest or nun ; 
On earth, God's face I'll never see ! 

Nor Mary, nor St. John ! 



228 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

" Mother, my hopes are gone again ; 

My heart is black as ever. 
Mother ! I say, look forth once more, 

And see can you discover 
God's glory in the crimson clouds — 

See, does He ride upon 
That perfumed breeze — or do you see 

The Virgin, or St. John ? 

" Ah, no ! ah, no ! Well, God of Peace, 

Grant me thy blessing still ; 
Oh, make me patient with my doom 

And happy at Thy will ; 
And guide my footsteps so on earth 

That, when I'm dead and gone, 
My eyes may catch Thy shining light, 

With Mary and St. John ! 

" Yet, mother, could I see your smile, 

Before we part below — 
Or watch the silver moon or stars 

Where Slaney's ripples flow ; 
Oh, could I see the sweet sunshine 

My native hills upon, 
I'd never love my God the less, 

Nor Mary, nor St. John ! 

" But no ! ah, no ! it cannot be ; 

Yet, mother, do not mourn — 
Come kneel again, and pray to God, 

In peace, let us return ; 
The Dark Girl's doom must aye be mine — 

But Heaven will light me on, 
Until I find my way to God, 

And Mary, and St. John ! " 

John Keegan. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 229 



THE POTATO DIGGERS SONG. 

Come, Connal, acushla, turn the clay, 

And show the lumpers the light, gossoon ! 
For we must toil this Autumn day, 

With heaven's help, till rise of the moon. 
Our corn is stacked, our hay secure, 

Thank God ! and nothing, my boy, remains 
But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure, 
Before the coming November rains. 
The Peasant's mine is his harvest still ; 
So now, my lads, let's work with a will ; 
Work hand and foot, 
Work spade and hand, 
Work spade and hand, 
Through the crumbly mould, 
The blessed fruit 
That grows at the root 
Is the real gold 
Of Ireland. 

Och, I wish that Maurice and Mary dear 

Were singing beside us this soft day ! 
Of course they're far better off than here ; 
But whether they're happier, who can say ? 
I've heard when it's morn with us, 'tis night 

With them on the far Australian shore ; 
Well, Heaven be about them with visions bright, 
And send them childer and money galore. 
With us there's many a mouth to fill, 
And so, my boy, let's work with a will ; 
Work hand and foot, 
Work spade and hand, 
Work spade and hand 
Through the brown, dry mould. 
The blessed fruit 
That grows at the root 
Is the real gold 
Of Ireland. 



230 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Ah, then, Paddy O'Reardon, you thundering Turk, 

Is it coorting you are in the blessed noon ? 
Come over here, Kitty, and mind your work, 

Or I'll see if your mother can't change your tune. 
Well youth will be youth, as you know, Mike, 

Sixteen and twenty for each were meant ; 
But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avic, 
Defer your proposals till after Lent ; 
And as love in this country lives mostly still 
On potatoes, dig boy, dig with a will ; 
Work hand and foot, 
Work spade and hand, 
Work spade and hand 
Through the harvest mould. 
The blessed fruit 
That grows at the root 
Is the real gold 
Of Ireland. 



Down the bridle road the neighbours ride, 

Through the light ash shade, by the wheaten 
sheaves, 
And the children sing on the mountain side, 

In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves ; 
As the great sun sets in glory furled, 

Faith it's grand to think as I watch his face, 
If he never sets on the English world, 
He never, lad, sets on the Irish race. 

In the West, in the South, new Irelands still 
Grow up in his light ; come, work with a will ; 
Work hand and foot, 
Work spade and hand, 
Work spade and hand 
Through the native mould. 
The blessed fruit 
That grows at the root 
Is the real gold 
Of Ireland. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 23 1 

But look ! the round moon, yellow as corn, 

Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm ; 
It scarcely seems a day since morn ; 

Well, the heel of the evening to you, ma'am ! 
God bless the moon ! for many a night, 

As I restless lay on a troubled bed, 
When rent was due, her quieting light 

Has flattered with dreams my poor old head. 
But see — the basket remains to fill. 
Come, girls, be alive ; boys, dig with a will ; 
Work hand and foot, 
Work spade and hand, 
Work spade and hand, 
Through the moonlit mould 
The blessed fruit 
That grows at the root 
Is the real gold 
Of Ireland. 

Th omas Caulfield Irwin. 

i DRUNKARD'S ADDRESS TO A BOTTLE OF 
WHISKEY. 

From what dripping cell, through what fairy glen, 
Where 'mid old rocks and ruins the fox makes his den ; 
Over what lonesome mountain, 

Acushla machree ! 

Where gauger never has trod, 

Sweet as the flowery sod, 

Wild as the breath 

Of the breeze on the heath, 
And sparklin' all o'er like the moon-lighted fountain, 

Are you come to me — 

Sorrowful me ? 

Dancing — inspirin' — 
My wild blood firin' ; 
Oh ! terrible glory — 
Oh ! beautiful siren — 
Come, tell the old story — 



232 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Come light up my fancy, and open my heart. 
Oh ! beautiful ruin — 
My life — my undoin' — 
Soft and fierce as a pantheress, 
Dream of my longing and wreck of my soul, 

I never knew love till I loved you, enchantheress ! 
At first, when I knew you, 'twas only flirtation, 

The touch of a lip and the flash of an eye ; 
But 'tis different now — 'tis desperation ! 
I worship before you, 
I curse and adore you, 

And without you I'd die. 

Wirrasthrue ! 

I wish 'twas again 

The happy time when 

I cared little about you, 

Could do well without you, 

But would just laugh and view you ; 

'Tis little I knew you ! 

Oh ! terrible darlin', 

How have you sought me, 

Enchanted, and caught me ? 

See, now, where you've brought me — 
To sleep by the road-side, and dress out in rags, 

Think how you found me ; 

Dreams come around me — 
The dew of my childhood, and life's morning beam ; 
Now I sleep by the roadside, a wretch all in rags. 
My heart that sang merrily when I was young, 
Swells up like a billow and bursts in despair ; 
And the wreck of my hopes on sweet memory flung, 

And cries on the air, 
Are all that is left of the dream. 

Wirrasthrue ! 
My father and mother, 
The priest, and my brother — 
Not a one has a good word for you. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 233 

But I can't part you, darling, their preachin's all vain ; 

You'll burn in my heart till these thin pulses stop, 
And the wild cup of life in your fragrance I'll drain 

To the last brilliant drop. 

Then oblivion will cover 

The shame that is over, 
The brain that was mad, and the heart that was sore. 

Then, beautiful witch, 

I'll be found — in a ditch, 
With your kiss on my cold lips, and never rise more. 

Joseph Sheridan Lefanu. 



SOGGARTH AROON. 

Am I the slave they say, 

Soggarth aroon ? 
Since you did show the way, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Their slave no more to be, 
While they would work with me 
Old Ireland's slavery, 

Soggarth aroon. 

Why not her poorest man, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Try and do all he can, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Her commands to fulfil 
Of her own heart and will, 
Side by side with you still, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Loyal and brave to you, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Yet be not slave to you, 

Soggarth aroon, 



234 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Nor, out of fear to you — 
Stand up so near to you — 
Och ! out of fear to you, 
Soggarth aroon ! 

Who, in the winter's night, 

Soggarth aroon, 
When the cold blast did bite, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Came to my cabin door, 
And, on my earthen floor, 
Knelt by me, sick and poor, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Who, on the marriage day, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Made the poor cabin gay, 

Soggarth aroon, 
And did both laugh and sing, 
Making our hearts to ring, 
At the poor christening, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Who, as friend only met, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Never did flout me yet, 

Soggarth aroon, 
And when my heart was dim, 
Gave, while his eye did brim, 
What I should give to him, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Och I you, and only you, 

Soggarth aroon ! 
And for this I was true to you, 

Soggarth aroon ; 
Our love they'd never shake, 
When for ould Ireland's sake 
We a true part did take, 

Soggarth aroon. 

John Banim. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 235 



FATHER O'FLYNN. 

Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety, 
Far renowned for lamin' and piety : 
Still, I'd advance you, widout impropriety, 
Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all? 

Chorus. 

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, 
Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin : 

Powerfulest preacher, and 

Tinderest teacher, and 
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal. 

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, 
Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity, 
Dad and the divels and all at Divinity, 

Father O'Flynn 'd makes hares of them all. 
Come, I vinture to give you my word, 
Never the likes of his logic was heard 
Down from Mythology 
Into Thayology, 
Troth ! and Conchology, if he'd the call. 

Chorus — Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, etc. 

Och ! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way 

wid you, 
All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, 
All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, 
You've such a way wid you, Father avick ! 
Still, for all you've so gentle a soul, 
Gad, you've your flock in the grandest con- 
throul : 
Checking the crazy ones, 
Coaxin' onaisy ones, 
Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick. 

Chorus — Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, etc. 



236 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, 
Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, 
Where was the play-boy could claim an equality 
At comicality, Father, wid you ? 

Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, 
Till this remark set him off wid the rest : 
"Is it lave gaiety 
All to the laity ? 
Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too ? " 

Chorus — Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, etc. 



THE RIVER. 

Poor Mick was trotting on to the town. 

The side car under him going ; 
He looked on the water, swollen and brown, 

He looked on the river flowing. 

The day was drear and heavy and dank, 

A sleety wind was blowing, 
And the river, creeping up over the bank, 

Was into the roadside going. 

Now, all that day till the night drew near, 
For the wind was bitterly blowing, 

Poor Mick sat gossiping here and there, 
While the river was steadily flowing. 

" And why would ye lave ? Tis a cruel night ; 

Oh, why should ye be going ? 
Bide ye here till the morning light, 

For the blackest wind is blowing !" 

" The wife will be wanting her bread and tay 

And oil for to light her sewing — 
Myself never minded the roughest day 

Or the blackest black wind blowing. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 237 

" Gi' alang, ould mare ! get up out of that ! 

For sure 'tis home we're going " ! 
He buttoned his coat and settled his hat, 

Nor thought of the river flowing. 

But cold and drear and dark was the night, 

The sleety wind was blowing, 
And where the road that morning was right 

The river's edge was flowing. 

Movrone ! for the childer ; movrone ! for the wife, 

They listen the north winds blowing. 
Movrone ! for the gasping, struggling life, 

Movrone ! for the river flowing. 

The morrow's morn saw the trembling mare, 

Saw the river muddily flowing, 
Saw boys and men seeking here and there, 

Though the soft south winds were blowing. 

Oh ! the early sun is fair to see, 

And the winter '11 soon be going, 
But deep and dank and dark lies he, 

Though the sweet south winds are blowing. 

Charlotte Grace O'Brien. 



TOM MOODY. 

You all know Tom Moody, the whipper-in, v/ell ; 
The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell ; 
A sportsman more able ne'er followed a hound, 
Through a country well known to him fifty miles round, 
No hound ever opened with Tom near the wood, 
But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good ; 
And all with attention would eagerly mark, 
When he cheered up the pack, " Hark ! to Rookwood, 
hark ! hark ! 

High ! — Wind him ! and cross him ; 

Now, Rattler, boy ! Hark ! " 



238 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Six crafty earth-stroppers, in hunter's green drest, 
Supported poor Tom to an " earth " made for rest ; 
His horse, which he styled his Old Soul, next appeared, 
On whose forehead the brush of the last fox was reared ; 
Whip, cap, boots and spurs, in a trophy were bound, 
And here and there followed an old straggling hound. 
Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace, 
Nor the welkin resound to the burst in the chase ! 

With " High over ! now press him ! 

Tally-ho !— Tally-ho ! " 

Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath, 
" Since I see you're resolved to be in at the death, 
One favour bestow — 'tis the last I shall crave, 
Give a rattling view-holloa thrice over my grave ; 
And unless at that warning I left up my head, 
My boys you may fairly conclude I am dead ! " 
Honest Tom was obeyed, and the shout rent the sky, 
For every voice joined in the tally-ho cry, 

Tally-ho ! Hark forward ! 

Tally-ho! Tally-ho! 

Andrew Cherry. 



HERRING IS KING. 

Let all the fish that swim in the sea — 

Salmon and turbot, cod and ling — 

Bow down the head and bend the knee 

To herring, their king ! — to herring, their king 
Sing, Thugamar fein an samhradh linn, 
'Tis we have brought the summer in 

The sun sank down, so round and red, 

Upon the bay, upon the bay ; 
The sails shook idly overhead — 
Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay. 
Sing, Thugamar fein an samhradh linn, 
'Tis we have brought the summer in. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY 239 

Till Shaun, "The Eagle/' dropped on deck, 

The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy ; 
'Tis he has spied your silver track, 
Herring, our joy — herring, our joy. 

Sing, Thugamar fein an samhradh linn, 1 
'Tis we have brought the summer in. 

It was in with the sails and away to the shore, 

With the rise and swing, the rise and swing 
Of two stout lads at each smoking oar, 
After herring, our king— herring, our king. 
Sing, Thugamar fein an samhradh linn, 
'Tis we have brought the summer in. 

The Manx and the Cornish raised the shout, 

And joined the chase, and joined the chase ; 
But their fleets they fouled as they went about, 
And we won the race, we won the race. 
Sing, Thugamar fein an samhradh linn, 
'Tis we have brought the summer in. 

For we turned and faced you full to land, 
Down the goleen long, the goleen long, 
And after you slipped from strand to strand 
Our nets so strong, our nets so strong. 
Sing, Thugamar fein an samhradh linn, 
'Tis we have brought the summer in. 

Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives : 
'Come, welcome us home — welcome us home ! 

Till they ran to meet us for their lives 
Into the foam, into the foam. 

Sing, Thugamar fein an samhradh linn, 
'Tis we have brought the summer in. 

Oh, the kissing of hands and waving of caps 

From girl and boy, from girl and boy, 
While you leapt by scores in the lasses' laps, 
Herring, our pride and joy. 

Sing, Thugamar fein an samhradh linn, 
'Tis we have brought the summer in. 

1 Translated by the following line. 



240 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

THE IRISH WIDOW'S MESSAGE TO HER SOI 
IN AMERICA. 

" Remember, Denis, all I bade you say, 

Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord ! 

But of our troubles since he went away, 
You'll mind, avic, and never say a word, — 

Of cares and troubles sure we've all our share, 

The finest summer isn't always fair. 

" Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May, — 
She died, poor thing, but that you needn't mind — 

Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay ; 
But tell him, God to us was always kind, 

And when the fever spread the country o'er, 

His mercy kept the sickness from the door. 

" Be sure you tell him how the neighbours came 
And cut the corn and stored it in the barn ; 

'Twould be as well to mention them by name — 
Pat Murphy, Ned McCabe, and James McCarn, 

And big Tim Daly from behind the hill — 

But say, agra, Oh, say, I missed him still ! 

" They came with ready hands our toil to share — 
'Twas then I missed him most, my own right hand ! 

I felt, although kind hearts were round me there, 
The kindest heart beat in a foreign land. 

Strong arm ! brave heart ! Oh, severed far from me 

By many a weary mile of shore and sea ! 

" You'll tell him she was with us (he'll know who), 
Mavourneen ! hasn't she the winsome eyes ? 

The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue 
That ever shone, except in summer skies ; 

And such black hair ! — it is the blackest hair 

That ever rippled o'er a neck so fair. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 24 1 

" Tell him that Pincher fretted many a day — 
Ah, poor old fellow, he had like to die ! 

Crouched by the roadside, how he watched the way, 
And sniffed the travellers as they passed him by. 

Hail, rain and sunshine, sure 'twas all the same, 

He listened for the foot that never came. 

' Tell him the house is lonesome-like and cold, 
The fire itself seems robbed of half its light ; 

But maybe 'tis my eyes are growing old, 

And things grow dim before my failing sight ; 

For all that, tell him 'twas myself that spun 

The shirts you bring, and stitched them every one. 

" Give him my blessing : morning, noon and night, 
Tell him my prayers are offered for his good, 

That he may keep his Maker still in sight, 
And firmly stand as his brave fathers stood, 

True to his name, his country, and his God, 

Faithful at home, and steadfast still abroad." 

Ellen Forrester. 



HERSELF AND MYSELF. 

An Old Man's Song. 

'Twas beyond at Macreddin, at Owen Doyle's weddin', 

The boys got the pair of us out for a reel. 
Says I : " Boys, excuse us." Says they : " Don't re- 
fuse us " — 

" I'll play nice and aisy," says Larry O'Neill. 
So off we went trippin' it, up an' down steppin' it — 

Herself and Myself on the back of the doore ; 
Till Molly — God bless her ! — fell into the dresser, 

An' I tumbled over a child on the floore. 



242 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY, 

Says Herself to Myself : " We're as good as the best 
of them." 
Says Myself to Herself: " Shure, we're better than 
gold." 
Says Herself to Myself : " We're as young as the rest o' 
them." 
Says Myself to Herself: "Troth, we'll never grow 
old." 

As down the lane goin', I felt my heart growin' 

As young as it was forty-five years ago ; 
'Twas here in this boreen I first kissed my stoireen — 

A sweet little colleen with skin like the snow. 
I looked at my woman — a song she was hummin' 

As old as the hills, so I gave her a pogue ; 
'Twas like our old courtin', half sarious, half sportur, 

When Molly was young, an' when hoops were in vogue. 

When she'd say to Myself : " You can coort with the 
best of them." 
When I'd say to Herself : " Sure, I'm better than 
gold." 
When she'd say to Myself : " You're as wild as the rest 
o' them." 
And I'd say to Herself : " Troth, I'm time enough 
old." 

Patrick J. MacCall. 



SONG OF AN ISLAND FISHERMAN. 

I groan as I put out my nets upon the say, 
To hear the little girshas shout, a-dance among the spray, 
Ochone ! the childer pass away, and lave us to our grief ; 
The stranger took my little lass at falling of the leaf. 

Why would you go so fast with him you never knew ? 
In all the throuble that is past I never frowned on you, 
The light of my old eyes you are, the comfort o' my heart ! 
Waitin' for me your mother lies in blessed Innishart. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 243 

rler lonesome grave I keep from all the cold world wide, 
3ut you in life an' death will sleep the stranger still beside. 
Ochone ! my thoughts are dark and wild ; but little blame, 

I say, 
An ould man hungerin' for his child, a- work the livelong 

day. 

You will not run again laughin' to see me land ; 

Oh, what was pain and throuble then, holdin' your little 

hand ? 
Or when your darlin' head let fall its soft curls on my 

breast, 
Why do the childer grow at all to love the stranger best ? 

Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 



O DRIMIN DHU DEELISH. 1 

O Drimin Dhu Deelish, my kind Kerry cow, 
As black as the night with one star on her brow, 
For Drimin Dhu Deelish, the silk of the kine, 
For Drimin Dhu Deelish, I mourn and I pine. 
As O ru drimin dhu, och o ru agraw, 
As O ru drimin dhu, go dhu tu slaun ! 

For when to the milking I'd call Drimin Dhu, 
'Twas then like a deer down the mountain she flew ; 
And ah, when beneath her the stool I would place, 
How oft on my shoulder she rubbed her soft face. 
As O ru, etc. 

And though sixteen gallons from Drimin would hail, 
And under my fingers froth up in the pail, 
She ne'er kicked one keeler away o'er the green, 
For no cow genteeler than Drimin was seen. 
As O ru, etc. 

1 O Dear Black Cow. 



244 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

The mountain bog slid and surprised Drimin Dhu, 
Though bravely she battled to break her way through ; 
Till down, down she went, with a drizzen and drone, 
Poor Drimin Dhu Deelish, and left us alone. 
As O ru, etc. 

When other cows ailed in the wet and the cold, 
Our Drimin was evermore hearty and bold ; 
Straight back and firm body and honey sweet breath, 
Mild eyes and grave manners, how could you know death : 
As O ru, etc. 

Oh, silk of the kine, when amongst us you stood. 
No milk was as fine and no butter as good, 
But oh, 'tis chill water and oh, tis dry scone, 
Since Drimin, since Drimin Dhu Deelish is gone ! 
As O ru, etc. 



PREPARATIONS FOR WINTER. 

There's my cabin with a bran new coat of thatch, Norah 

dear ! 

'Tis as cosy as the overcoat I've on ; 

And the stack that s in the haggard you won't match, 

Norah dear ! 

Sure the neighbours call it Lugnaquilla's son ! 

I've put bushes in the gaps and the doors I've painted 

green ; 

And the garden wall I've nately repaired. 

If I only had yourself, dear, I could say, like king or 

queen, 

Roll on, winter, I'm well prepared ! 

There's an acre of potatoes in the pit, Norah dear ! 

Troth, I've turf enough to light me to fame ; 
And the corner of the kitchen where you'd sit, Norah 
dear ! 

Is a pleasant place to talk or to dream. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 245 

\h, but lonesomest of all is my heart there above ; 

If the wind through its corners you heard, 
you'd step into it at once with a turf load of love, 

Crying, winter, I'm well prepared ! 

Patrick J. McCall. 



MY BLESSING BE ON WATERFORD. 

My blessing be on Waterford, the town of ships, 
For it's what I love to be streeling on the quay, 

Watching while the boats go out, watching them come in, 
And thinking of the one I know that's sailing far away. 

It's well to be in Waterford, to see the ships, 
The great big masts of them against the evening sky, 

Seagulls flying round, and the men unloading them, 
With quare strange talk among themselves the time 
you're passing by. 

[ love to be in Waterford, to see the ships come in, 
Bringing in their cargoes from west, and east, and 
south. 

Some day one I love will stand here upon the quay ; 
He'll take my two hands in his own and stoop to kiss 
my mouth. 

Winifred M. Letts. 



IF ALL THE YOUNG MAIDENS. 

If all the young maidens were blackbirds and thrushes, 
A-making sweet music in white flowering bushes, 

No work I'd be doing ; 

I'd sit and be strewing 
The grains of my barn for the sake of their song ! 



246 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

If all the young maidens were cowslips and daisies, 
Till filled was the meadow with sweet pretty faces, 

I'd scratch my head over, 

And chew a red clover — 
The sorrow a scythe would I sweep through the throng 

If all the young maidens were stars in heaven, 

Out peeping like mice through the chinks of the even', 

No sleep I'd be getting, 

But signing and fretting, 
When Dawn's whiskered cat stretches out her long tongue ! 

If all the young maidens were mealy potatoes, 
A-laughing and smiling — " Young man, come an' ate us," 

I'd die of starvation — 

A sight for the nation — 
And lie in my grave, ere I'd put in a prong. 

So you see, Molly O ! I've a heart soft and tender, 
And don't you stand out, but just make your surrender. 

If you're bold like these Thrushes 

That fight in the bushes, 
I'll turn to some Blackbird and sing you my Song ! 

Patrick J. McCall. 



THE SIX ROAD ENDS. 

When folks hae got the meetin' an' Sabbath dinner ower, 
The neighbours aye'll gather an' pass a frien'ly hour, 

O'er the doin's o' the week 

Tongues'll wag an' cutties reek — 
Every Sabbath evenin' at the " Six Road Ends." 

If comin' frae the market ye got a wee bit drouth, 
An' gang into the " public " an' tongue has slipped the 
truth, 

How ye sold the spavin mare, 

Bested this yin here an' there — 
Ye'll hear it on the Sabbath at the " Six Road Ends " 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 247 

Hae ye got a poun' note — ye dinna want to len' ? 
Have ye got a wife — that'd rin about an' spen' ? 

An' gang an' waste it a' 

Buyin' things she had nae ca' — 
Ye'll hear it on the Sabbath at the " Six Road Ends." 

Hae Billy got the measles or Sammy got the mumps ? 
The brindle cow has died or yer wife hae got the grumps ? 

Ye'll hear it a' an' mair, 

Till yer heart is sick an' sair — 
Ye'll hear it on the Sabbath at the " Six Road Ends." 

The latest price o' cattle, the prospect o' the crops, 
Is the minister goin' to marry, or no quite orthodox ? 
How some countryside magnate 
Slipped a ha'penny on the plate — 
Ye'll hear it on the Sabbath at the " Six Road Ends." 

I hae a girl that loves me, her word she gie me true, 
Her face is fair an' kin'ly, her name I'll nae tell you ; 

We gang where nane'll see, 

For in troth ye'll no catch me. 
Courtin' on the Sabbath near the " Six Road Ends." 

Will Carew. 



GOD'S FOOL. 

He stumbles down the village street. They crool 

Their fingers as he passes by, 

And follow with disdainful eye, 
His queer ungainly form and uncouth look. 

Ah, men, your petty scorning spare, 

He hath a greater cross to bear ! 

A woman turns from scoffing with the rest 
To hush the little child that clings, 
Affrighted, to her apron strings, 



248 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Or hides a little soft head on her breast. 
Women, he too was fair of limb, 
And once a mother prayed for him ! 

Ragged and queer and old, he comes alone, 

But sometimes, with mysterious smile, 

He mutters to himself the while, 
Or stops to hold strange converse with a stone. 

Ah, men, beware, lest you should curse 

The Master of the universe. 

He claims acquaintance with a leaf wind-blown, 

Or bids good morrow to a toad ; 

So, far adown the dusty road 
He stumbles forward into the unknown. 

Have pity on his passing. He 

Hath trod the road to Calvary. 

Celia Duffin. 



BONNIE TWINKLING STARNIES. 

Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 

Sae gentle and sae bright — 
Ye woo me and ye win me 

With your soft and silver light. 
Now peepin' o'er the mountain — 

Now glintin' in the streams — 
Now kissin' the red heather bell 
All with your winsome beams. 
Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 

Sae gentle and sae bright — 
Ye woo me and ye win me 
With your soft and silver light. 

Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 

When gloamin' sheds its tinge, 
And strings the crystal dew-drop 

Around the gowan's fringe — 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 249 

How often do I linger, 

With keen and anxious eye, 
To watch your bonnie faces 
Come glintin' frae the sky ? 
Starnies ! twinklin' starnies ! 
Sae gentle and sae bright 
Ye woo me and ye win me 
With your soft and silver light. 

Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 

Bright guardians of the skies — 
How can we dream of wickedness 

Beneath your sleepless eyes ? 
Cold and pulseless is the heart 

And deeply fraught with guile, 
Who does na feel the " lowe o' love " 
When ye look down and smile. 
Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 

Sae gentle and sae bright — 
Ye woo me and ye win me 
With your soft and silver light. 

James McKowen. 



"THEY'RE ONLY WEANS." 

" Come in, sir, an' right welcome too ; 
Wi' rain, I'm sure, ye're drenched clane thro', 
Take off your coat. What's that ye say ? 
Ye'll not ! But aye ye will, in troth ! 
That's right ; och, it's an awful day ! 
Johneen, git ye up oot o' there, 
An' gie the gentleman that chair. 
Come up, come up, sir, from the dure ; 
Ye look near perished wi' the couP. 
Come tae the fire ; I'll git a bowl 
An' you'll take jist a sup o' broth. 
An' sir, ye'll pardon me, I'm sure, 
An' dinnae mind the kitchen flure — 



250 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Ye cudnae keep it clane : the weans 

White l sticks the whole day whin it rains ; 

Ye know I cannae let them oot 

Tae play, an' many's the scud an' cloot 

They git from me ; for sir, in troth ! 

Sometimes they nearly turn my head. 

But after all, sir, whin all's said — 

They're weans. 

Och, aye ! they're only weans." 

Padric Gregory. 



THE HILL O' DREAMS. 

My grief ! for the days that's by an' done, 

When I was a young girl straight an' tall, 
Comin' alone at set o' sun, 

Up the high hill road from Cushendall. 
I thought the miles no hardship then, 

Nor the long road weary to the feet, 
For the thrushes sang in the deep green glen, 

An' the evenin' air was cool an' sweet. 

My head with many a thought was throng, 

And many a dream as I never told, 
My heart would lift as a wee bird's song, 

Or at seein' a whin bush crowned with gold. 
And always I'd look back at the say, 

Or the turn o' the road shut out the sight 
Of the long waves curlin' into the bay 

An' breakin' in foam where the sands is white. 

I was married young on a dacent man, 

As many would call a prudent choice, 
But he never could hear how the river ran 

Singin' a song in a changin' voice, 
Nor thought to see on the bay's blue wather 

A ship with yellow sails unfurled, 
Bearin' away a King's young daughter 

Over the brim of the heavin' world. 

1 To white sticks=to cut or whittle sticks. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 25 1 

The way seems weary now to my feet, 

An' miles bes many, an' dreams bes few, 
The evenin' air's not near so sweet, 

The birds don't sing as they used to do. 
An' I'm that tired at the top o' the hill, 

That I haven't the heart to turn at all, 
To watch the curlin' breakers fill 

The wee round bay at Cushendall. 

Helen Lanyon. 



THE BLUE, BLUE SMOKE. 

Oh ! many and many a time, 

In the dim old days, 
When the chapel's distant chime 

Pealed the hour of evening praise, 
I've bowed my head in prayer : 

Then shouldered scythe or bill, 
And travelled free of care 
To my home across the hill : 
Whilst the blue, blue smoke 
Of my cottage in the coom, 
Softly wreathing, 
Sweetly breathing, 
Waved my thousand welcomes home. 

For oft and oft I've stood, 

Delighted in the dew, 
Looking down across the wood, 
Where it stole into my view — 
Sweet spirit of the sod 

Of our own Irish earth, 
Going gently up to God, 

From the poor man's hearth. 
O, the blue, blue smoke 
Of my cottage in the coom, 
Softly wreathing, 
Sweetly breathing, 
My thousand welcomes home. 



252 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

But I hurried swiftly on, 

When Herself from the door 
Came swimming like a swan 
Beside the Shannon shore : 
And after her in haste, 

On pretty, pattering feet, 
Our rosy cherubs raced 
Their daddy dear to meet : 
While the blue, blue smoke 
Of my cottage in the coom, 
Softly wreathing, 
Sweetly breathing, 
Waved my thousand welcomes home. 

But the times are sorely changed 

Since those dim old days, 
And far, far I've ranged 

From those dear old ways : 
And my colleen's golden hair 

To silver all has grown, 
And our little cherub pair 
Have cherubs of their own : 
And the black, black smoke, 
Like a heavy funeral plume, 
Darkly wreathing, 
Fearful breathing, 
Crowns the city with its gloom. 

But 'tis our comfort sweet, 

Through the long toil of life, 
That we'll turn with tired feet 

From the noise and the strife, 
And wander slowly back 

In the soft western glow, 
Hand in hand, by the track 
That we trod long ago : 
Till the blue, blue smoke 
Of our cottage in the coom, 
Softly wreathing, 
Sweetly breathing, 
Waves our thousand welcomes home. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 253 



OUT OF HEARING. 



No need to hush the children for her sake, 

Or fear their play : 
She will not wake, mavrone, she will not wake. 
'Tis the long sleep, the deep long sleep she'll take, 

Betide what may. 
No need to hush the children for her sake ; 
Even if their glee could yet again outbreak 

So loud and gay. 
She will not wake, mavrone, she will not wake. 
But sorrow a thought have they of merry-make 

This many a day. 
No need to hush the children for her sake, 
So still they bide and sad her heart would ache 

At their dismay. 
She will not wake, mavrone, she will not wake 
To bid them laugh, and if some angel spake 

Small heed they'd pay. 
No need to hush the children for her sake. 
She will not wake, mavrone, she will not wake. 

Jane Barlow. 



LIKE ONE I KNOW. 

Little Christ was good, and lay 

Sleeping, smiling in the hay ; 

Never made the cows' round eyes 

Open wider at His cries ; 

Never, when the night was dim, 

Startled guardian Seraphim, 

Who above Him in the beams 

Kept their watch round His white dreams ; 

Let the rustling brown mice creep 

Undisturbed about His sleep. 

Yet if it had not been so — 

Had He been like one I know, 



254 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Fought with little fumbling hands, 
Kicked inside His swaddling bands, 
Puckered wilful crimsoning face — 
Mary Mother, full of grace, 
At that little naughty thing, 
Still had been a-worshipping. 



Nancy Campbell. 



IRISH LULLABY. 

I'd rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold 

on a bough of the willow, 
To the shoheen ho ! of the wind of the west and the 
lulla lo ! of the soft sea billow. 
Sleep, baby dear, 
Sleep without fear, 
Mother is here beside your pillow. 

I'd put my own sweet childie to float in a silver boat on 

the beautiful river, 
Where a shoheen ! whisper the white cascades, and a 
lulla lo ! the green flags shiver. 
Sleep, baby dear, 
Sleep without fear, 
Mother is here with you for ever. 

Shoheen ho ! to the rise and fall of mother's bosom 

'tis sleep has bound you, 
And, oh, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest could 
love have found you ? 
Sleep, baby dear, 
Sleep without fear, 
Mother's two arms are clasped around you. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 255 



DREAMS. 

My son is in America 

Away beyond the sea, 
But in his dreams he comes back home, 

And looks out towards Knockree. 
He sees the ribbon of white road 

Go winding towards Glenchree, 
And he knocks with his stick on the open door 

To call herself and me. 

All day he's working in the town, 

And moidhered with the street, 
But in his dreams he feels the grass — 

The grass beneath his feet. 
He wanders up the green hill-side, 

The elder bloom smells sweet, 
Then he praises God for the Irish air 

And reek of burning peat. 

The wonders of the West he sees, 

For men of wealth live there 
In houses reaching to the stars, 

With everything that's fair. 
" But och ! " says he, " the hills for me, 

The sight of grouse or hare, 
The cry of the curlews over the bog, 

The breath of Irish air." 

Winifred M. Letts. 



IN BALLYSHANNON. 

Standing on the Mall, beside the Salmon-leap, 
By the dancing, singing waters of the Erne, 

Where the town of Ballyshannon lies asleep 
In Tyrconnell proud and stern. 



256 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

I behold, as in a dream, the olden time, 
And familiar forms in tender sunset glow, 

And I hear the old Kilbarron belfry chime, 
As in Sabbaths long ago. 

In Kilbarron church my mother stood, a bride, 
And its churchyard holds her kindred in its breast, 

And I stand, a stranger, where they loved and sighed, 
And were carried to their rest. 

Far away the heedless world is surging on, 
And the distant headlands greet the rising sea, 

And the soundless dusk is gliding, pale and wan, 
Round the river mournfully. 

I go forth, as in a vision of the night, 

And I journey past the bracken and the fern, 

Scarcely listening, in the swiftly-dying light, 
To the music of the Erne. 

To the wistful cadence of its vesper song 
Reminiscent of the islands and the lake, 

Whence its waters wandered in a wayward throng 
For the salt sea-surge's sake. 

And the happy children by the Salmon-leap, 
And the happy faces, vanished long ago, 

Come to me in fancy as my watch I keep, 
While the lonely shadows grow. 

Some, perchance, sought El Dorado far away, 
Some sought fair renown like valiant knights of old, 

Hearing in their souls the Erne's bright waters play, 
As on elfin harps of gold. 

And Tyrconnell's sea-cliffs, white with spray and foam, 
Seemed to call the exiles over wave and shore. 

But the hearth grew cold, and desolate the home, 
And the children came no more. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 257 

Only fancies floating through an ancient time, 
Bringing to my soul, like music soft and low, 

Vanished congregations, and a Sabbath chime, 
And the dreams of long ago. 

Quiet on the town, and on the misty Erne, 
Quietness to-night, as in the buried years, 

And, perchance, our hearts new hope and love may 
learn, 
From forgotten smiles and tears. 

Robert J. Kerr. 



PADRIC THE FIDILER. 

Padric sits in the garden 

Inundher the bright new moon, 
An' from his fid.il coaxes 

A lovely, dreamy tune. 

Och ! I love the tune he's playin* 

An' wisht it was for me ; 
But I know it's for the birdeens 

Up in the cherry tree. 

Sure, iv'ry night they peep from 

Inundher their mother's wings 
Tae hear the silvery music 

His wee dark fid.il sings ; 

An' for them he's always playin', 

An' has nae a thought o' me ; 
For if I go out he wandhers 

Away from the cherry tree. 

Padric Gregory. 

s 



258 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



THE STARLING LAKE. 

My sorrow that I am not by the little dun 

By the lake of the starlings at Rosses under the hill, 
And the larks there, singing over the fields of dew ; 

Or evening there and the sedges still. 
For plain I see now the length of the yellow sand, 

And Lissadell far off and its leafy ways, 
And the holy mountain whose mighty heart 

Gathers into it all the coloured days. 
My sorrow that I am not by the little dun 

By the lake of the starlings at evening when all is still, 
And still in whispering sedges the herons stand. 
'Tis there I would nestle at rest till the quivering moon 

Uprose in the golden quiet over the hill. 

Seumas O' Sullivan. 



THE GRAND MATCH. 

Dennis was hearty when Dennis was young, 
High was his step in the jig that he sprung, 
He had the looks an' the sootherin' tongue, — 
An' he wanted a girl wid a fortune. 

Nannie was grey-eyed, an' Nannie was tall, 
Fair was the face hid inundher her shawl, 
Troth ! an' he liked her the best o' them all, — 
But she'd not a traneen to her fortune. 

He be to look out for a likelier match, 
So he married a girl that was counted a catch, 
An' as ugly as need be, the dark little patch, — 
But that was a trifle, he tould her. 

She brought him her good-lookin' gold to admire, 
She brought him her good-lookin' cows to his byre, 
But, far from good-lookin' she sat by his fire, — 
And paid him that " trifle " he tould her. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 259 

He met pretty Nan when a month had gone by, 
An' he thought, like a fool, to get round her he'd try, 
Wid a smile on her lip and a spark in her eye, 
She said, " How is the woman that owns ye ? " 

Och, never be tellin' the life that he's led ! 
Sure many's the night that he'll wish himself dead, 
For the sake of two eyes in a pretty girl's head, — 
An' the tongue of the woman that owns him. 

Moira O'Neill. 



CORRYMEELA. 

Over here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay, 
And I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day ; 
Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat ! 
Och ! Corrymeela, an' the blue sky over it. 

There's a deep dumb river flowin' by beyont the heavy 

trees, 

This livin' air is moithered wi' the hummin' o' the bees ; 
I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go runnin' through 

the heat, 
Past Corrymeela, wi' the blue sky over it. 

The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews, 
There's not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in 

his shoes ! 

I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child, 
Och ! Corrymeela, an' the low south wind. 

Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care, 
By the luck o' love ! I'd still go light for all I did go bare. 
" God save ye, colleen dhas," I said ; the girl she thought 

me wild ! 
Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind. 



260 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to 

raise, 

The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase ; 
When ones't I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis I'll be baci 

again — 
Aye, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain. 

The puff o' smoke from one ould roof before an English 

town ! 

For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I'd give a silver crown, 
For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye'll ask the like in vain, 
Sweet Corrymeela, an' the same soft rain. 

Moira O'Neill. 



AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS. 

Oh, to have a little house, 

To own the hearth and stool and all — 
The heaped-up sods upon the fire, 

The pile of turf against the wall ! 

To have a clock with weights and chains, 
And pendulum swinging up and down ! 

A dresser filled with shining delph, 
Speckled and white and blue and brown ! 

I could be busy all the day 

Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, 
And fixing on their shelf again 

My white and blue and speckled store. 

I could be quiet there at night 

Beside the fire and by myself, 
Sure of a bed, and loth to leave 

The ticking clock and shining delph. 



IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY. 26 1 

Och ! but I'm weary of mist and dark, 

And roads where there's never a house or bush, 

And tired I am of bog and road, 

And the crying wind and the lonesome hush : 

And I am praying to God on high, 
And I am praying Him night and day, 

For a little house — a house of my own — 
Out of the wind's and the rain's way 

Padraic Colum. 



STRINGS IN THE EARTH AND AIR. 

Strings in the earth and air 

Make music sweet ; 
Strings by the river where 

The willows meet. 

There's music along the river, 

For Love wanders there, 
Pale flowers on his mantle, 

Dark leaves on his hair. 

All softly playing 

With head to the music bent, 
And fingers straying 

Upon an instrument. 

James Joyce 



262 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL 
POETRY. 



THE TRYST AFTER DEATH. 

[" Fothad Canann the leader of a Connaught warrior- 
band, had carried off the wife of Alill of Minister with her 
consent. The outraged husband pursued them, and a 
fierce battle was fought, in which Fothad and Alill fell 
by each other's hands. The lovers had engaged to meet 
on the evening after the battle. Faithful to his word, 
the spirit of the slain warrior kept his tryst and thus 
addressed his paramour] : — 

Hush, woman ! Do not speak to me ; 

My thoughts are not with thee to-night. 
They glance again and yet again 

Among the slain at Feic fight. 

Who'd find my bloody corpse must grope 
Upon the Slope of Double Brink ; 

My head unwashed is in the hands 
Of bands who ne'er from slaughter shrink. 

Dark Folly is that tryster's guide 
Who Death's black tryst aside would set ; 

To keep the tryst at Claragh made, 
The living and the dead are met. 

Unhappy journey ! Evil doom 

Had marked my tomb on Feic field, 

And pledged me in that fateful strife 
To foreign foes my life to yield. 

263 



264 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Not I alone from Wisdom's way 
Have gone astray by Passion led ; 

Yet though for thee to death I came, 
I put no blame on thy bright head. 

Full wretched is our meeting here 
In grief and fear, O hapless one ! 

Yet had we known it should be thus, 
Not hard for us our sin to shun. 

The proud-faced, grey-horsed warrior band 
At my command fought faithful on ; 

Till all their wondrous wood of spears 

Beneath Death's shears to earth had gone. 

Had they but lived, their valour bright 
To-night had well avenged their lord. 

Had Death not all my purpose changed, 
I had avenged them with my sword. 

Theirs was the blithe and lithesome force, 
Till man and horse lay on the mould. 

The great, green forest hath received 
And overleaved the champions bold. 

The sword of Domnall drank red dew, 
The Lugh of hosts accoutred well, 

Before him in the River Ford 

By Death's award slim Comgal fell. 

The three fierce Flanns, the Owens three, 
From sea to sea six outlaws famed — 

Each with his single hand slew four, 
No coward's portion thus they claimed. 

Swift charged Cu-Domna, singling out 
With gleesome shout, his name-sake dread, 

Down the Hill of Conflict rolled 
Lies Flann the Little cold and dead 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 265 

Red Falvey how your spear-string's play 
Amid the fray made manhood melt ; 

Forchorb, the Radiant, on his foes 

Seven murderous blows, outleaping, dealt. 

Twelve warriors in the battle brunt 

Front to front against me stood. 
Now of all the twelve are left 

But corses cleft and bathed in blood. 

Then I and Alili, Owen's son, 
To shun each other we were loath, 

With dropping sword and lowered shield, 
Still stood the field to view us both. 

Oh, then we too exchanged our spears, 

Heroic peers, with such dread art, 
I pierced him to the very brain, 

He me again unto the heart. 

Abide not on the battle-plain 

Among the slain in terror's toils ; 
Shun ghostly converse ; home with speed 

Bear thou my meed of manly spoils. 

All know that I was never seen, 

Oh, Queen, apparelled as a boor, 
But crimson-cloaked, with tunic white, 

And belt of silver, bright and pure. 

A five-edged spear, a lance of trust, 

Of many-slaying thrust I bore ; 
A shield five-circled, bronze its boss, 

Firm oaths across its midst they swore. 

My silver cup, a shining gem — 

Its glittering stem will flash to thee ; 

Gold ring and bracelets, famed afar, 
By Nia Nar brought over sea. 



266 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Then Cailte's brooch, a pin of luck, 
Though small, a buckle of price untold ; 

Two little silver heads are bound 
Deftly around its head of gold. 

My draught-board, no mere treasure stake, 
Is thine to take without offence ; 

Noble blood its bright rim dyes, 
Lady it lies not far from hence. 

While searching for that treasure prized, 
Be thou advised thy speech to spare. 

Earth never knew beneath the sun 
A gift more wonderfully fair. 

One-half its pieces yellow gold, 
White bronze of mould are all the rest ; 

Its woof of pearls, a peerless frame, 
By every smith of fame confessed. 

The piece-bag — 'tis a tale of tales — 
Its rim with golden scales enwrought. 

Its maker left a lock on it 
Whose secret no want-wit hath caught. 

Small is the casket and four-square, 
Of coils of rare red gold its face, 

The hundreth ounce of white bronze fine 
Was weighed to line that matchless case. 

O'er sea that red gold coil firm-wrought 
Dinoll brought, the goldsmith nice ; 

Of its all-gl ttering clasps one even 

Is fixed at seven bondwomen's price. 

Tradition tells the treasure is 
A masterpiece of Turvy's skill ; 

In the rich reign of Art The Good 
His cattle would a cantred fill. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 267 

No goldsmith at his glittering trade 
A wonder made of brighter worth ; 

No royal jewel that outdid 
Its glory hath been hid in earth. 

If thou appraise its price with skill, 
Want shall thy children ne'er attack ; 

If thou keep safe this gem of mine, 
No heir of thine shall ever lack. 

There are around us everwhere 

Great spoils to share of famous luck ; 

Yet horribly at entrails grim 

The Morrigan's dim fingers pluck. 

Upon a spear-edge sharp alit, 

With savage wit she urged us on. 
Many the spoils she washes, dread 

The laughter of red Morrigan. 

Her horrid mane abroad is flung 

That heart's well-strung that shrinks not back, 
Yet though to us she is so near, 

Let no weak fear thy heart attack. 

At dawn I part from all that's human, 
To join, O woman ! the warrior band. 

Delay not ! Homeward urge thy flight ; 
The end of night is nigh at hand. 

Unto all time each ghostly rann 

Of Fothad Canann shall remain, 
My speech with thee reach every breast, 

If my bequest I but obtain. 

Since many to my grave will come, 

Raise thou for me a tomb far-seen. 
Such trouble for thy true love's sake 

Wilt thou not undertake, O Queen ! 



268 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

My corse from thee must earthward pass, 
My soul, alas ! to torturing fire. 

Save worship of Heaven's Lord of lords 
All earth affords but folly dire. 

I hear the dusky ousel's song, 

To greet the faithful throng, outpour ; 

My voice, my shape, turn spectral weak — 
Hush, woman, speak to me no more ! 



ALEXANDER THE GREAT. 

[From the Early Irish.] 

Four Sages stood to chant a stave 
Above the proud Earth Conqueror's grave ; 
And all their words were words of candour 
Above the urn of Alexander. 

The first began : " But yesterday, 
When all in State the Great King lay, 
Myriads around him made their moan, 
To-day he lieth all alone ! " 

" But yesterday," the second sang, 
"O'er earth his charger's hoof outrang ; 
To-day its outraged soil instead 
Is riding heavy o'er his head ! " 

" But yesterday," the third went on, 
" All earth was swayed by Philip's son ; 
To-day to shroud his calcined bones 
Seven feet thereof is all he owns ! " 

" But yesterday, so liberal he, 
Silver and gold he scattered free ; 
To-day," the last outsighed^ his thought, 
" His wealth abounds but he'is naught ! " 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 269 

Thus sentence gave these Sages four 
Above the buried Emperor ; 
It was no foolish women's prate 
That held them thus in high debate. 



EARLY IRISH TRIADS. 

[From the Ninth Century Collection of that name.] 

Three slender ones whereon the whole Earth swings 
The thin milk stream that in the keeler sings, 
The thin green blade that from the cornfield springs, 
The thin grey thread the housewife's shuttle flings. 

Three finenesses that foulness keep from sight : 
Fine manners in the most misfeatured wight, 
Fine shapes of art by servile fingers moulded, 
Fine wisdom from a hunch-back's brain unfolded. 

Three fewnesses that better are than plenty : 
A fewness of fine words — but one in twenty — 
A fewness of milch- cows, when grass is shrinking ; 
Fewness of friends when beer is best for drinking. 

Three graceless sisters in the bond of unity 
Are lightness, flightiness and importunity. 

Three clouds, the most obscuring Wisdom's glance : 
Forgetfulness, half-knowledge, ignorance. 

Three signs of ill-bred folk in every nation : 
A visit lengthened to a visitation, 
Staring, and over-much interrogation 

Three keys that most unlock our secret thinking 
Are love and trustfulness and over-drinking. 



27O BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Three the receivers are of stolen goods : 

A cloak, the cloak of night, the cloak of woods. 

Three unions, each of peace a proved miscarriage : 
Confederate feats, joint ploughland, bonds of marriage. 

Three excellencies of our dress are these : 
Elegance, durability and ease. 

Three aged sisters, not too hard to guess, 
Are groaning, chastity and ugliness. 

Three glories of a gathering free from strife : 
Swift hound, proud steed and beautiful young wife. 

The world's three laughing stocks (be warned and wiser !) 
An angry man, a jealous and a miser. 

Three powers advantaging a Chieftain most 
Are Peace and Justice and an armed host. 
Three worst of snares upon a Chieftain's way : 
Sloth, treachery and evil counsel they ! 

Three ruins of a tribe to west or east : 
A lying Chief, false Brehon, lustful Priest. 

The rudest three of all the sons of earth : 
A youngster of an old man making mirth, 
A strong man at a sick man poking fun, 
A wise man gibing at a foolish one. 

Three signs that show a fop ; the comb-track in his hair, 
The track of his nice teeth upon his nibbled fare, 
His cane track in the dust, oft as he takes the air. 

Three sparks that light the fire of love are these : 
Glamour of face, and grace, and speech of ease. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 27 1 

Three steadinesses of wise womanhood : 
A steady tongue, through evil as through good ; 
A steady chastity, whoso else shall stray ; 
Steady house-service, all and every day. 

Three signs of increase : kine that low, 
When milk unto their calves they owe ; 
The hammer on the anvil's brow, 
The pleasant swishing of the plough. 

Three sisters false : I would ! I might ! I may ! 
Three timorous brothers : Hearken ! Hush ! and Stay ! 

Three coffers of a depth unknown 
Are His who occupies the throne, 
The Church's, and the privileged Poet's own. 



THRO' GRIEF AND THRO' DANGER. 

[An Address to the Irish Catholic Church.] 

Thro' grief aj^d thro' danger thy smile hath cheer 'd my way, 
Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay; 
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love 

burned, 

Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned, 
Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, 
And bless'd e'en the sorrows that made me more dear 

to thee. 

Thy rival was honoured, while thou wert wronged and 

scorned ; 

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorned ; 
She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves ; 
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves ; 
Yet, cold in the earth at thy feet I would rather be, 
Than wed what I lov'd not, or turn one thought from thee. 



272 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

They slander thee sorely who say thy vows are frail ; 
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less 

pale ; 
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those ling'ring 

chains, 
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile 

stains, 

Oh ! do not believe them, no chain could that soul subdue, 
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too. 

Thomas Moore. 



TO TIME. 

Yes, gentle Time, thy gradual, healing hand 

Hath stolen from sorrow's grasp the envenomed dart ; 

Submitting to thy skill, my passive heart 
Feels that no grief can thy soft power withstand, 

And though my aching breast still heaves the sigh, 

Though oft the tear swells silent in mine eye, 
Yet the keen pang, the agony is gone ; 

Sorrow and I shall part, and these faint throes 

Are but the remnant of severer woes ; 
As when the furious tempest is o'er blown, & 

And when the sky has wept its violence, 
The opening heavens will oft let fall a shower, 

The poor o'ercharged boughs still drops dispense. 
And still the loaded streams in torrents pour. 

The Hon. Mrs. Tighe. 



LAST LINES. 

No coward soul is mine, 
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere ; 

I see Heaven's glories shine, 
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 273 

O God, within my breast, 
Almighty, ever-present Deity ! 

Life — that in me has rest, 
As I — undying life — have power in Thee. 

Vain are the thousand creeds 
That move men's hearts ; unutterably vain ; 

Worthless as withered weeds, 
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main. 

To waken doubt in one 
Holding so fast to Thine infinity ; 

So surely anchored on 
The steadfast rock of immortality. 

With wide-embracing love 
Thy spirit animates eternal years, 

Pervades and broods above, 
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. 

Though earth and man were gone, 
And suns and universes ceased to be, 

And Thou were left alone, 
Every existence would exist in Thee. 

There is not room for Death, 
Nor atom that his might could render void ; 

Thou — Thou are Being and Breath, 
And what Thou art may never be destroyed. 

Emily Bronte 



MOONLIGHT. 

'Tis sweet at hush of night 

By the calm moon to wander, 
And view those isles of light 
That float so far beyond her, 
In that wide sea 
Whose waters free 



274 BOOK OF IRISH POFTRY. 

Can find no shore to bound them, 
On whose calm breast 
Pure spirits rest 
With all their glory round them ; 
Oh ! that my soul, all free, 

From bonds of earth might sever ; 
Oh ! that those isles might be 
Her resting place for ever. 

When all those glorious spheres 

The watch of Heaven are keeping, 
And dews, like angels' tears, 
Around are gently weeping ; 
Oh, who is he 
That carelessly 
On virtue's bounds encroaches, 
But then will feel 
Upon him steal 
Their silent, sweet reproaches ? 
Oh ! that my soul, all free, 

From bonds of earth might sever ; 
Oh ! that those isles might be 
Her resting-place for ever. 

J. J. Callanan. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN. 

Yes, grief will have way — but the fast falling tear 
Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those 

Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career, 
And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close. 

Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed 
By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave ; 

Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, 
Like the Ghole of the East, come to feed at his grave 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 275 

Oh ! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, 
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born ; 

To think what a long line of titles may follow 

The relics of him who died — friendless and lorn ! 

How proud they can press to the funeral array 

Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow ; 

How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day, 

Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow ! 

And thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream, 
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had passed, 

Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam 

Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast. 

No, not for the wealth of the land, that supplies thee 
With millions to heap upon Foppery's shrine ; 

No, not for the riches of all who despise thee — 
Though this would make Europe's whole opulence 
mine — 

Would I suffer what e'en in the heart that thou hast — 
All mean as it is, must have consciously burned, 

When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee 
at last, 
And which found all his wants at an end, was returned 

" Was this then the fate," — future ages will say, 

When some names shall live but in History's curse ; 

When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day 
Be forgotten as fools, or remembered as worse. 

" Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man, 
The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall, 

The orator — dramatist — minstrel — who ran 

Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all. 

" Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art, 
From the finest and best of all other men's powers — 



276 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY 

Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart, 
And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its 
showers. 

" Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light, 
Played round every subject, and shone as it played ; 

Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright. 
Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade. 

" Whose eloquence — brightening whatever it tried, 
Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave, — 

Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide 
As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave ! " 

Yes — such was the man, and so wretched his fate ; 

And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve, 
Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great, 

And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve. 

In the woods of the North there are insects that prey 
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh ; 

O Genius ! thy patrons, more cruel than they, 

First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die ! 

Thomas Moore. 



THE SUN GOD. 

I saw the Master of the Sun. He stood 

High in his luminous car, himself more bright ; 

An Archer of immeasurable might : 

On his left shoulder hung his quivered load ; 

Spurned by his Steeds the eastern mountain glowed ; 

Forward his eager eye, and brow of light 

He bent ; and, while both hands that arch embowed, 

Shaft after shaft pursued the flying Night. 

No wings profaned that godlike form : around 

His neck high held an ever-moving crowd 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 277 

Of locks hung glistening : while such perfect sound 
Fell from his bowstring, that th' ethereal dome 
Thrilled as a dewdrop ; and each passing cloud 
Expanded, whitening like the ocean foam. 

Aubrey De Vere. 



SORROW. 

Count each affliction, whether light or grave, 
God's messenger sent down to thee ; do thou 
With courtesy receive him ; rise and bow ; 
And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave 
Permission first his heavenly feet to lave ; 
Then lay before him all thou hast : Allow 
No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, 
Or mar thy hospitality ; no wave 
Of mortal tumult to obliterate 
The soul's marmoreal calmness : Grief should be, 
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate ; 
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free ; 
Strong to consume small troubles ; to commend 
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to 
the end. 

Aubrey De Vere. 



THE FALLEN STAR. 

A star is gone ! a star is gone ! 

There is a blank in Heaven, 
One of the cherub choir has done 

His airy course this even'. 

He sat upon the orb of fire 
That hung for ages there, 

And lent his music to the choir 
That haunts the nightly air. 



278 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

But when his thousand years are passed, 

With a cherubic sigh, 
He vanished with his car at last — 

For even cherubs die ! 

Hear how his angel-brothers mourn — 

The minstrels of the spheres — 
Each chiming sadly in his turn 

And dropping splendid tears. 

The planetary sisters all 

Join in the fatal song, 
And weep this hapless brother's fall, 

Who sang with them so long. 

But deepest of the choral band 

The Lunar Spirit sings, 
And with a bass-according hand 

Sweeps all her sullen strings. 

From the deep chambers of the dome 

Where sleepless Uriel lies, 
His rude harmonic thunders come, 

Mingled with mighty sighs. 

The thousand car-borne cherubim, 

The wandering Eleven, 
All join to chant the dirge of him 

Who fell just now from Heaven. 

George Darley. 



THE SEA RITUAL, 

Prayer unsaid, and Mass unsung, 
Deadman's dirge must still be rung : 

Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound ! 

Mermen chant his dirge around ! 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 279 

Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair, 
Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair : 

Dingle-dong, the dead-bells go ! 

Mermen swing them to and fro ! 

In the wormless sand shall he 
Feast for no foul glutton be : 

Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime ! 

Mermen keep the tone and time ! 

We must with a tombstone brave 
Shut the shark out from his grave : 

Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll ! 

Mermen dirgers ring his knoll ! 

Such a slab will we lay o'er him, 
All the dead shall rise before him : 

Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom ! 

Mermen lay him in his tomb ! 

George Darley. 



A WAKING DREAM. 

Dreaming in the twilight, 
When the shades creep o'er the hill ; 
Watching, when the sun is gone, 
How the grey, cold night comes on, 
Awake, yet dreaming still. 

Then I dream of dead ones, 
Of my life the joy and light, 
And I see them round me rise, 
And I feel their cold calm eyes 
Gaze on me through the night. 



280 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Dreaming by the firelight, 
When the wintry night is chill — 
Watching fire-sparks upward fly, 
While the embers sink and die — 
Awake, yet dreaming still. 

Then I dream of fair souls 
From dead ashes issuing bright, 

And I see my dead arise, 

Soaring heavenward through the skies, 
In the death- dark night. 

Dreaming in the sunlight, 
When the summer noon is still — 
Watching in the deep blue sky 
Clouds of white, gold-cinctured lie — 
Awake, yet dreaming still. 

Then I dream of heaven, 
Far beyond those tranquil skies, 
And I see, 'mid angels bright, 
My dead, in robes of gold and white, 
Alive before my eyes. 

John Francis Waller. 



A LAMENT. 

Youth's bright palace 

Is overthrown, 
With its diamond sceptre 

And golden throne ; 

As a time-worn stone 
Its turrets are humbled, 
All hath crumbled 

But grief alone. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 28 1 

Whither, oh ! whither 

Have fled away 
The dreams and hopes 

Of my early day ? 

Ruined and grey 
Are the towers I builded ; 
And the beams that gilded, 

Ah 1 where are they ? 

Once this world 

Was fresh and bright, 
With its golden noon 

And its starry night ; 

Glad and light, 
By mountain and river, 
Have I blessed the Giver 

With hushed delight. 

Youth's illusions, 

One by one, 
Have passed like clouds 

That the sun looked on. 

While morning shone, 
How purple their fringes ! 
How ashy their tinges 

When that was gone ! 

As fire-flies fade 

When the nights are damp — 
As meteors are quenched 

In a stagnant swamp, 

This Charlemagne's camp, 
Where the Paladins rally, 
And the Diamond Valley, 

And the Wonderful Lamp — 

And all the wonders 

Of Ganges and Nile, 
And Haroun's rambles, 

And Crusoe's isle — 



282 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

And Princes who smile 
On the Genii's daughters 
'Neath the Orient waters 

Full many a mile — 

And all that the pen 
Of Fancy can write, 

Must vanish in manhood's 
Misty light- 
Squire and knight, 

And damosels' glances, 

Sunny romances 

So pure and bright ! 

These have vanished, 

And what remains ? 
Life's budding garlands 

Have turned to chains — 

Its beams and rains 
Feed but docks and thistles, 
And sorrow whistles 

O'er desert plains ! 

Denis Florence McCarthy. 



2EOL1AN HARP. 

O pale green sea, 
With long, pale, purple clouds above — 
What lies in me like weigl#of love ? 

What dies in me 
With utter grief, because there comes no sign 
Through the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line ? 

O salted air, 
Blown round the rocky headland still, 
What calls me there from cove and hill ? 

What calls me fair 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 283 

From thee, the first-born of the youthful night, 

Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight ? 

O yellow Star, 
Quivering upon the rippling tide — 
Sendest so far to one that sigh'd ? 

Bendest thou, Star, 
Above, where the shadows of the dead have rest 
And constant silence, with a message from the blest ? 

William Allingham. 



O! WONDROUS DEATH 

I. 

Where thou hast touched, Oh, wondrous Death ! 

Where thou hast come between, 
Lo ! there for ever perisheth 

The common and the mean. 

No little flaw, or trivial speck 

Doth any more appear, 
And cannot from this time, to fleck 

Love's perfect image clear. 

Clear stands Love's perfect image now, 

And shall do evermore, 
And we in awe and wonder bow, 

The glorified before. 

II. 

A dewdrop falling on the wild sea wave, 

Exclaimed in fear — " I perish in this grave " ; 

But in a shell received, that drop of dew 

Unto a pearl of marvellous beauty grew ; 

And, happy now, the grace did magnify 

Which thrust it forth — as first it feared, to die ; — 



284 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Until again, " I perish quite," it said, 
Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed ; 
O unbelieving ! — so it came to gleam 
Chief jewel in a Monarch's diadem. 

III. 

The seed must die before the corn appears 
Out of the ground, in blade and fruitful ears. 
Low must those ears by sickle's edge be lain, 
Ere thou canst treasure up the golden grain. 
The grain is crushed, before the bread is made. 
And the bread broke, ere life to man conveyed. 
Oh ! be content to die, to be laid low, 
And to be crushed, and to be broken so ; 
If thou upon God's table may'st be bread, 
Life-giving food for souls an-hungered. 

Archbishop Trench. 



LADY MARGARET'S SONG 

Girls, when I am gone away, 

On this bosom strew 
Only flowers meek and pale, 

And the yew. 

Lay these hands down by my side, 

Let my face be bare ; 
Bind a kerchief round the face, 

Smooth my hair. 

Let my bier be borne at dawn, 
Summer grows so sweet, 

Deep into the forest green 
Where boughs meet. 

Then pass away, and let me lie 
One long, warm, sweet day, 

There alone, with face upturned, 
One sweet dav. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 285 

While the morning light grows broad, 

While noon sleepeth sound, 
While the evening falls and faints, 

While the world goes round. 

Edward Dowden. 



EPITAPH. 

He roamed half round the world of woe, 

Where toil and labour never cease ; 
Then dropped one little span below, 

In search of peace. 

And now to him mid beams and showers, 

All that he needs to grace his tomb, 
From loneliest regions, at all hours, 

Unsought for, come. 

Aubrey De Vere. 



AN ERRAND. 

I slept ; and where her lonely flower-knots gleam 
My dear lost Love I saw a-near my side, 

Yet knew our fate, since in my dreamiest dream 
How should I once forget that Norah died ? 

But by a blossomed briar methought she stood, 
Whereon the rose's dawn was fair to see ; 

And " Bend the spray," she said, " and this small bud 
It lifts so high above us, pluck for me. 

" This is the flower I ever loved of yore, 
This little rose, that where its petals part 

Is all a-flush within, as if it bore 
A rosier rose's shadow at its heart." 



286 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Then, " O my love," I said, " needs must there be 
In thy dread world, unwist of mortal eyes, 

Full many a wondrous bloom, and worthier thee 
Than aught that drinks the light of these dim skies ! " 

" Most fair," quoth she, " untouched of change that mars 
I see them shine ; yet this I chide in all, 

That steadfast bides their beauty as a star's, 
Nor ever a glow will fade, a leaf will fall. 

" For so, Beloved, I still have vainly sought, 
And missed in sheeniest sheen, in sweetest sweet, 

A symbol of the old life's bliss, pain-fraught — 
Thine yet — where all delight doth fail and fleet. 

" Hence, for the old days' sake, from that far land 
To clasp these flowers a weary way fare I, 

Because their deathward drooping in my hand 
Breathes memory of our love that shall not die." 

Jane Barlow. 



THE EARTH AND MAN. 

A little sun, a little rain, 

A soft wind blowing from the west — 
And woods and fields are sweet again, 

And warmth within the mountain's breast. 

So simple is the earth we tread, 

So quick with love and life her frame, 

Ten thousand years have dawned and fled, 
And still her magic is the same. 

A little love, a little trust, 

A soft impulse, a sudden dream — * 
And life, as dry as desert dust, 

Is fresher than a mountain stream. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 287 

So simple is the heart of man, 

So ready for new hope and joy, 
Ten thousand years since it began 

Have left it younger than a boy. 

Stopford A. Brooke. 



SONG. 



Bring from the craggy haunts of birch and pine, 

Thou wild wind, bring 
Keen forest odours from that realm of thine, 
Upon thy wing ! 

Oh ! wind, Oh ! mighty, melancholy wind, 

Blow through me, blow ! 
Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind, 

From long ago. 

John Todhunter. 



THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN. 

The old priest, Peter Gilligan, 

Was weary night and day ; 
For half his flock were in their beds, 

Or under green sods lay. 

Once, while he nodded on a chair, 

At the moth-hour of eve, 
Another poor man sent for him, 

And he began to grieve. 

" I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace, 

For people die and die " ; 
And after cried he, " God forgive I 

My body spake, not I ! " 



288 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

He knelt, and leaning on the chair 

He prayed and fell asleep, 
And the moth- hour went from the fields, 

And stars began to peep. 

They slowly into millions grew, 
And leaves shook in the wind, 

And God covered the world with shade, 
And whispered to mankind. 

Upon the time of sparrow chirp 
When the moths came once more, 

The old priest, Peter Gilligan, 
Stood upright on the floor. 

" Mavrone, mavrone ! the man has died, 
While I slept on the chair." 

He roused his horse out of its sleep, 
And rode with little care. 

He rode now as he never rode, 

By rocky lane and fen ; 
The sick man's wife opened the door : 

" Father ! you come again." 

" And is the poor man dead ? " he cried. 

" He died an hour ago." 
The old priest, Peter Gilligan, 

In grief swayed to and fro. 

" When you were gone, he turned and died 

As merry as a bird." 
The old priest, Peter Gilligan, 

He knelt him at that word. 

" He who hath made the night of stars 
For souls, who tire and bleed, 

Sent one of His great angels down 
To help me in my need 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 289 

"He who is wrapped in purple robes, 

With planets in His care, 
Had pity on the least of things 

Asleep upon a chair." 

William Butler Yeats. 



THE IRISH MOTHER'S LAMENT. 

Half the long night my children, I lie waking 
Till the dawn rustles in the old thorn-tree, 

Then dream of you while the red morn is breaking 
Beyond that broad salt sea, 

In this poor room, where many a time the measure 
Of your low, regular breathing in mine ear, 

Brought to my listening heart a keener pleasure 
Than any music clear. 

Here, where, your soft heads in my bosom laying, 
Ye nestled with your hearts to my heart press' d ; 

And I have felt your little fingers playing, 
All night, around my breast. 

On the brown hill-side, where so oft together, 
Roaming forth idly, when our work was done, 

We heard the moor-fowl in the purple heather 
Crowing at set of sun. 

I am alone — still on my threshold lieth 
The shadow of the thorn ye play'd beneath, 

Still to her mate, at eve, the brown bird crieth, 
Out of the lonely heath : 

But in my desolate house no sound of laughter, 
And by my dreary hearth no daughter's face ; 

I watch the black smoke curling round the rafter, 
I see each empty place. 



290 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

How could you leave me ? Did ye think a mother 
Was natured like a bird in summer's prime, 

Who leaves her young brood, hopeful of another 
In the next glad spring time ? 

They tell me your new home is rich and sunny, 
More than this dwelling on the mountain cold ; 

Fair as the iand that flowed with milk and honey, 
In the great Book of old. 

They tell me flowers most beautiful are blowing 
Out on your waysides, on your common trees, 

But will ye find the mother's love there growing, 
Ye gave for things like these ? 

And some have told me souls are never parted ; 

Faith leads us all unto the same bright Heaven, 
Nor meet it is, that women, Christian-hearted, 

To such wild grief be given ; 

Ah ! But I know in that bright land is wanting 
On Sunday morn, the sweet church-calling bell, 

The pastoral word, the gather'd voices chanting 
Hymns that ye loved so well. 

The cares of this great world, its toils, its beauty, 
Will dim your eyes, and grow about your heart, 

And shut out heavenly hope and Christian duty. 
And every better part. 

The prayers we pray'd together at God's altar, 
The creed ye lisp'd into my ear at night, 

The verses that I taught your lips to falter 
Will be forgotten quite. 

Ah me ! could I but think those lips were making, 
In some far church, the vows they used to pour, 

I could lie down without this wild heart-aching 
Lest we should meet no more. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 2C)I 

Sad mother ! for the visible presence pining 
Of eyes that smile and lips that fondly move, 

Things that, like dewy nights and bright sun's shining, 
Nurse the sweet flowers of love. 

But sadder far, when the wild waves that sever 
Sing to her ear in one foreboding strain : 

" We part you now, but must ye part for ever ? " 
Echoing the heart's dull pain. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 



SACRIFICE. 

Those delicate wanderers, 
The wind, the star, the cloud, 

Ever before mine eyes, 
As to an altar bowed, 
Light and dew-laden airs, 

Offer in sacrifice. 

The offerings arise : 
Hazes of rainbow light, 

Pure crystal, blue and gold, 
Through dreamland take their flight ; 
And 'mid the sacrifice 

God moveth as of old. 

In miracles of fire 

He symbols forth His days ; 

In gleams of crystal light 
Reveals what pure pathways 
Lead to the soul's desire, 

The silence of the height. 

A.E. 



20,2 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

ST. MICHAN'S CHURCHYARD. 

[Robert Emmet's Burial place.] 

Inside the city's throbbing heart 

One spot I know, set well apart 

From Life's hard highway, Life's loud mart. 

Each Dublin lane, and street, and square 

Around might echo ; but in there 

The sound stole soft as whispered prayer. 

A little, lonely, green graveyard, 

The old church tower its solemn guard, 

The gate with nought but sunbeams barred. 

While other sunbeams went and came 
Above the stone which waits the name, 
His land must write with Freedom's flame. 

The slender elm above that stone 

Its summer wreath of leaves had thrown 

Around the heart so quiet grown. 

A robin, the bare boughs among, 
Let loose his little soul in song — 
Quick liquid gushes, fresh and strong. 

And quiet heart, and bird and tree, 
Seemed linked in some strange sympathy 
Too fine for mortal eye to see, 

But full of balm and soothing sweet, 
For those who sought that calm retreat, 
For aching breast and weary feet. 

Each crowded street and thoroughfare 
Was echoing round it — yet in there 
The peace of Heaven was everywhere. 

Rose Kavanagh. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 293 



LIFE. 

Ah, Life ! that mystery that no man knows, 
And all men ask, the Arab from his sands, 
The Caesar's self, lifting imperial hands, 
And the lone dweller where the lotus blows ; 
O'er trackless tropics and o'er silent snows 
She dumbly broods, that Sphinx of all the lands, 
And if she answers no man understands, 
And no cry breaks the blank of her repose. 

But a new form dawned once upon my pain, 
With grave sad lips, yet in the eyes a smile 
Of deepest meaning dawning sweet and slow, 

Lighting to service, and no more in vain 

I ask of Life, " What art thou ? " as erewhile, 

For since Love holds my hand I seem to know. 

Elizabeth Mary Little. 



A BENEDICTION 

Dear little boy, 

Soft-handed, playing with white daisies now, 

Playing above tree shadows on the grass, 

Where sorrowful I pass, 

A gloom upon the sunlight of your joy 

Seems to fall down whilst I am laying now 

A kiss upon the brightness of your brow, 

For with that kiss I did not wish you joy, 

Dear little boy. 

But this I wish for you, — 
Not fortune, not much ease, not blissful days, 
Not overmuch of even well-won praise, 
Not even at end of life your labour's due — 



294 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

But that beneath those little faltering feet, 

In sacrifice complete, 

A hard path may be chosen, the upward way, 

On which I pause to-day — 

Pause, helpless, weary, and can walk no more, 

Whose work in life is o'er 

And I bequeath, 

When I must rest my share of earth beneath, 

My days of toil being done, 

The hope of this so nearly hopeless heart 

To you, weak little one, 

To be cherished and held apart, 

Perhaps by failure to be tried and shaken, 

Yet not by you forsaken ; 

But kept, as I have kept it, handed on 

Till, when you too are dust beneath the flowers, 

Triumph at last is ours, 

When darkness yields to dawn ; 

And may it be our best of heaven to know 

That God has made it so. 

Now you may run, 

White pinafore, into the spreading sun ; 

Mid shadows racing as the clouds pass by, 

Go, play, as thoughtless as the butterfly, 

The white, gay thing that you are chasing after, 

With ringing childish laughter ; 

And I, whose innocent days of mirth are o'er, 

Seeing you look to me and laugh again, 

Feel hope steal back into my heart once more — 

Hope, with this thought of pain, 

That, oh ! you would be frightened if you knew 

All I have wished for you. 

Alice Milligan. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 295 



TOO DEEP FOR TEARS. 

Come once again out of the depths of night, 
Out of the darkness, that is all too bright 
For eyes that need the glare of earthly light 

Look once again, oh, eyes of purest blue, 
Deep into mine — alas ! that never knew 
In bygone days what beauty shone in you. 

calm and silent eyes, yet once again 
Ye look upon me, and I look in vain ; 

That baffling stillness — is it love or pain ? 

Or love reproaching me that mine is cold ? 
Ah ! never so ; the love that burned of old 
Burns all the more because it burns untold. 

Nay, doubt me not ; a thousand cares beset ; 
New joys, new sorrows tempt me to forget ; 
But thou, my dearest ! art remembered yet. 

My brother ! my lost brother ! who can say 
How far from sight, beneath life's surface play, 
Live wounds of anguish that no tears betray ? 

Thou knowest at least that only when my woe 
Grew part of me, and sank from sight below 
Into my life, my tears forbore to flow. 

Thou knowest, oh, love, how often while I fare 
Through dark and stony paths — in my despair 

1 seek thine arm — and lean — on empty air. 

Aye, even now thy dear imagined eyes 
Speak from the darkness, and thy heart replies 
To these my passionate and wayward cries ; 



296 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

" Lean on me still ; God gave, in taking me, 
His precious gifts of Hope and Memory ; 
Be strong in these, and I am near to thee." 

Edmund G. A. Holmes. 



A RETORT. 

Not hers your vast Imperial mart, 
Where myriad hopes on fears are hurled ; 

Where furious rivals meet and part 
To woo a world. 

Not hers your vast Imperial town, 

Your mighty mammoth piles of grain, 

Your loaded vessels sweeping down 
To glut the main. 

Unused, unseen, her rivers flow 
From mountain tarn to ocean tide ; 

Wide vacant leagues the sunbeams show, 
The rain-clouds hide. 

You swept them vacant ! Your decree 
Bid all her budding commerce cease ; 

You drove her from your subject sea 
To starve in peace ! 

Well, be it peace ! Resigned they flow, 
No laden fleet adown them glides, 

But wheeling salmon sometimes show 
Their silvered sides. 

And sometimes through the long still day 
The breeding herons slowly rise, 

Lifting grey tranquil wings away 
To tranquil skies. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 2qj 

Stud all your shores with prosperous towns ' 
Blacken your hill-sides, mile on mile ! 

Redden with bricks your patient downs ! 
And proudly smile ! 

A day will come before you guess, 
A day when men with clearer light, 

Will rue that deed beyond redress ; 
Will loathe that sight. 

And, loathing, fly the hateful place, 

And, shuddering, quit the hideous thing 

For where unblackened rivers race 
And skylarks sing. 

For where, remote from smoke and noise, 
Old Leisure sits knee-deep in grass ; 

Where simple days bring simple joys, 
And lovers pass. 

I see her in those coming days, 

Still young, still gay ; her unbound hair 

Crowned with a crown of starlike rays r 
Serenely fair 

I see an envied haunt of peace, 

Calm and untouched, remote from roar ; 

Where wearied men may from their burdens cease 
On a still shore. 

Emily Lawless. 



CARRICK. 

I will not walk these roads of pain, 
I will turn back to youth again. 
'Tis full sunlight, though past the noon, 
The night will not come very soon, 
And if you haste we may lie down 
Before sunset in Carrick town. 



298 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY 

O brothers, sisters, come with me. 
The old house still stands there, you see 
My little red-haired Tories, 1 come, 
For none can shut the door of home. 
We're safe before the sun goes down, 
And sleep is sweet in Carrick town. 

O hide me, Carrick, shut me in. 

Here in your little streets begin 

Again for me the young surprise 

Of life, give back the eager eyes, 

The bounding hearts, the hands that clung, 

The songs our comrade voices sung. 

See our own window set so high 
To catch the wonder of the sky. 
Come Brown Eyes, Blue Eyes, Curly Head. 
O come, my living, come, my dead ! 
O Death, how did you find the way 
You tread so certainly to-day ? 

No bigger than a bulrush, I 
Beside the rushy Shannon cry. 
There are no children on the shore, 
The singing voices sing no more, 
The sea draws all her rivers down, 
And love has sailed from Carrick town 

Susan Mitchell. 



1 Irish name for rogues or robbers. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 299 



CONNLA'S WELL. 

[That is a well at which are the hazels of wisdom and inspira- 
tions, that is, the hazels of the science of poetry, and in the. 
same hour, their fruit and their blossom and their foliage break 
forth, and then fall upon the well in the same shower, which raises 
upon the waters a royal surge of purple." — " The Voyage of Bran," 
P- 214.] 

A cabin on the mountain-side hid in a grassy nook, 
With door and window open wide, where friendly stars 

may look, 

The rabbit shy can patter in, the winds may enter free 
Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy 

And when the sun sets dimmed in eve, and purple fills the 

air, 

I think the sacred hazel-tree is dropping berries there, 
From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well 

o'erflows ; 
For, sure, the immortal waters run through every wind 

that blows. 

I think, when night towers up aloft and shakes the tremb- 
ling dew, 

How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit 
through 

Is but a shining berry dropped down through the purple 
air, 

And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere. 

A.E. 



DREAMS. 

Beyond, beyond the mountain line, 
The grey-stone and the boulder, 

Beyond the growth of dark green pine 
That crowns its western shoulder, 

There lies that fairy land of mine, 
Unseen of a beholder. 



300 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Its fruits are all like rubies rare ; 

Its streams are clear as glasses ; 
There golden castles hang in air, 

And purple grapes in masses, 
And noble knights and ladies fair 

Come riding down the passes. 

Ah me ! they say if I could stand 

Upon those mountain ledges, 
I should but see on either hand 

Plain fields and dusty hedges ; 
And yet I know my fairy-land 

Lies somewhere o'er their edges. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 



THE SOUL-BELL. 

Night, and its noon and a far to-morrow, 

Grey with the fears 
Of a future that leans to a past to borrow 

Its meed of tears. 

White are the drifts outside ; and hither, 

Around her bed, 
White comes the face, that asks, oh, whither 

Fares forth my dead ? 

White is the taper clasped in her fingers ! 

Her lips are white ; 
Recall Thy judgment, O God ! that lingers 

This weary night ! 

Hark ! from the ivy across the river 

Moaneth the bell ; 
Death ! fling thy arrow back to its quiver ; 

There ! it is well ! 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 3OI 

Still as the marble and cold she seemeth, 

Looking afar ; 
Round the wide orb of her future gleameth 

Her life's lone star. 

Frail, how the garments of life still hold her 

From the far flight 
Through the trail of the stars, whose eyes enfold her 

Beyond the night. 

Hark ! how again the soul-bell splinters 

The granite gloom, 
Thick with the murk of a thousand winters, 

And a halting doom. 

Come, O ye Spirits, that float and hover 

Above the soul ! 
Is there no gleam of bliss to cover 

Grey death and dole ? 

There, once again like a bolt from heaven 

(Why always three ?) 
Thunders the soul-bell till earth is riven 

'Twixt you and me. 

A flash of crimson ; in some far bourn 

A star hath bled ; 
Earth and the sky have met to mourn 

Ismene, dead ! 

Patrick A. Sheehan. 



TITAN. 



What matters where the great God flings 
Down on earth's floor thy thinking clay, 
If thou canst rise and live to-day 

The life of emperors and kings ! 



302 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

So take thy soul and keep it sane ; 

And, treading firm the green earth-sod, 
Look upward from that place to God, 

That He shall see thy soul again. 

There undejected, there unhurled 

Asunder — sick with mortal change ; 

Self-held from star to star to range, 
Or one with all the working world. 

O King of kings and emperors, 

Though vagabond of night and morn — 
Some dusty quarry-fellow born 

To walk beside a tattered horse. 

Charles Weekes 



A MOMENT'S INSIGHT. 

Beyond the smoke there burns a veiled fire, 
Behind the horizon sails a ship of dreams, 

Yet in the night of deeds and dull desire 

The earth that blinds our eyes our Mother seems. 

Lo, now the smoke rolls her thick cloud away, 
And white sails gleam on the horizon line ; 

Fierce pity whispers in the ears of clay, 
And broken gods still know themselves divine. 

Eva Gore-Booth. 



"THERE SHALL BE NO MORE SEA." 

" There shall be no more Sea." Ah, surely this 

Is only for the souls who reach the bliss 

Of Paradise ! They need not seek the kiss 

Of Earth's great mother, Sea ; nor will they miss, 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 303 

Whose pulses with new-risen life beat high, 
The soothings of the ^Eolian lullaby, 
Which now doth win man's weariness to lie, 

Lapped in its sound and be content to die. 

* 

Hearts strong in vigour of their fresh great joy 
Will ask no more the leaping waves to buoy 
Their moods to kindred laughter, and destroy 
Through alien glee their human cares' annoy 
A little while. The eyes whereon doth break 
The light of Heaven, what need have they to take 
Sad pleasure in those ocean gleams that make 
Dim lives worth living for their beauty's sake ? 

Yet though the Blessed need no more the Sea, 
Will not God leave her to the Lost ? — that she, 
Who could not save them from their woe, may be 
Their nurse to comfort, ever tenderly 
With vast and low-voiced hushabies to still 
The restlessness of pain incurable, 
And with a sense of vague, fair sadness fill 
Their hunger for lost good adorable. 

Men love her, earth's old Sea. She loves them well. 
If she may be their mother too in Hell, 
Will she not rock them there with lulling swell, 
In her deep constancy ? Ah, who can tell ? 
If waters' strength and love's be not in vain, 
Some souls who nevermore God's grace might gain 
May yet to peace of dreamless sleep attain, 
Lost to all gladness, lost alike to pain. 

Elizabeth Dickinson West. 
(Mrs. Edward Dowden). 



304 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



ADRIFT. 

Unto my Faith, as to a spar, I bind 

My Love — and Faith and Love adrift I cast 
On a dim sea. I know not if at last 

They the eternal shore of God shall find. 

I only know that neither waves nor wind 
Can sunder them ; the cords are tied so fast 
That Faith shall never — doubts and dangers past — 

Come safe to land, and Love be left behind. 

Elizabeth Dickinson West. 
(Mrs. Edward Dowden). 



A SONG OF SUN SETTING. 

More fleet than flights of fire, 

More soft than stealth of sleep, 
Speed down abysses dire, 

'Twixt outpost stars that keep 
Lone boundary lights ablaze, 

While, meshed in spiry rings, 
Suns weave their devious maze — 

Even so my sweet merle rings. 

He furls his dusky wings 

Beneath the ivy-hood 
That o'er yon gate-arch clings, 

As hill and field and wood, 
Through pale mists hovering dim 

Go lifted high and higher, 
Up, up, with cup-curved rim 

Against the West's rose fire. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 305 

Speed swiftlier still and nigher ; 

Nay, ere our veiled dawn clings, 
The disc of vesmeil fire, 

Breathe hither, Spring of Springs — 
Thy spell's enchanted might, 

Whose sudden gramary brings 
A change to strange delight — 

'Tis so my sweet merle rings. 

Ah, list his soothsayings, 

Of joy unthought, untold, 
Waked in all mortal things, 

Till even the weary and old 
Must deem they dream the truth, 

And see their soul's desire, 
Thrilled through anew with youth, 

Whose shadow is dew and fire. 

Fled hate and wrath's fell fire, 

Slain fear and sorrowing sore, 
The very airs inspire 

Love-lore and wonder-lore ; 
A heaven no heart shall miss, 

Where storm wild rapture flings, 
And calm sheds balm of bliss — 

Even so my sweet merle sings. 

Jane Barlow. 



TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

Minstrel unseen, who singest to the skies, 
Hope not to make the vestal night pulsate 
To such wild strains of music passionate ; 
For she on heaven hath fixed her virgin eyes, 
And, deaf to thine entrancing melodies, 
Doth quiring angels, silent, contemplate, 
While hid in shadow, thou may'st sing and wait, 
To thine own longing making sad replies. 



306 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

He is thy love ! O see, at heaven's edge, 
Where trees expectant stand along the ridge, 
Thy song is crowned ere yet its ardour sinks ; 
Dawn leans her down through golden window-bars, 
And flings with shining hands her wreathed pinks 
Among the silver lilies of the stars 

Elinor Sweetman. 



THE SHELL. 

And then I pressed the shell 

Close to my ear 
And listened well, 
And straightway like a bell 

Came low and clear 
The slow, sad murmur of far distant seas, 
Whipped by an icy breeze 

Upon a shore 
Wind swept and desolate. 

It was a sunless strand that never bore 
The footprint of a man, 

Nor felt the weight 
Since time began 
Of any human quality or stir, 
Save what the dreary winds and waves incur. 
And in the hush of waters was the sound 
Of pebbles rolling round, 
For ever rolling with a hollow sound, 
And bubbling sea- weeds, as the waters go, 
Swish to and fro 

Their long, cold tentacles of slimy grey. 
There was no day, 
Nor ever came a night 
Setting the stars alight 
To wonder at the moon. 
Was twilight only and the frightened croon, 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 307 

Smitten to whimpers, of the dreary wind 
And waves that journeyed blind — 
And then I loosed my ear — oh, it was sweet 
To hear a car go jolting down the street ! 

James Stephens. 



THE ROSE OF SILENCE. 

In a green stillness hidden from sun and moon 

Under the sea, 
A blossom swings by the High-Queen's doon 

On a silver tree ; 
And every poet has dreamed since time begun 

Of that hidden place, 
But only those who have said farewell to the sun 

May come to the doon by the silver tree 
Or find in hollow or height, 
Under the still green tideless sea 

The Rose of Silence and Night. 

Ella Young. 



THE BOUGH OF TIME. 

When all the years are shaken 
From the Bough of Time, 

Beloved we shall waken 
In some far golden clime, 

Where no dark hour can hold us 

Or bitter memory fold us 

And youth is ne'er o'ertaken 
By wintry Age's rime. 

There joy from height to hollow 

Will call on us to follow 



308 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

And starry blossoms swaying 
Will set our hearts a-maying 
And keep our feet delaying 
In that far golden clime. 

O would the years were shaken 
From the Bough of Time. 

Ella Young. 



A DREAM GARDEN 

Will you come one day to see me 

In my House of Dream ? 
I'll light the way before you 

With a rainbow gleam. 

You'll see the cloud- walled garden 

Where my lilies grow, 
And count the sunflowers swaying 

In a golden row. 

The south wind blows the rose leaves 

Before the sun, 
In a cloud of crimson sweetness 

When day is done. 

And the stars come out a-flutter 

Like moths white-winged 
Among my apple branches 

All flame be-ringed. 

Flame-fair the apples shimmer 

And change and glow, 
And nowhere but in cloud-land 

Such apples grow. 

O come and see my garden 

And my House of Dream, 
I'll light the way before you 

With a rainbow-gleam, Ella Young. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY 309 



THE UNEXPLORED. 

Out of lonely seas we sailed 

After dusk and crossed the bar 
Ere the darkness wholly veiled 

Haven, shores and lands afar ; 
Ere the path of wild-rose light 
O'er the hills had faded quite 
Or the shore-light's golden rays 
Glowed across the water-ways. 

Wonderlands of which we dreamed 

Over the unventured seas 
Never more enchanted seemed, 

Never lovelier than these ; 
These that, hidden till the dawn, 

Now no boundary confines, 
Save where starry skies have drawn 

Silvery horizon lines. 

There, between the veiled and shown, 
Wonders hidden are our own ; 
Forest voices whisper there 
Lore of days that never were ; 
Secrets vision hides we find 
Written in the undefined ; 
Revelations in the guessed, 
Treasures in the unpossessed. 

Darker, over waters dark, 

Loom the shores ; and still remains, 
Here and there, a light to mark 

Ships along the haven lanes. 
Softer, over ripples soft, 

Far away the sea-winds blow ; 
Fairer than the stars aloft 

Shine the stars in depths below. 



310 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Ah ! what seek we ? Even now, 

While we wonder, we endow 

All things near us and afar 

With the dreams that nowhere are : 

Reading into the unknown 

Hopes that we have long outgrown, 

Weaving into the unseen 

Tidings of the might-have-been. 

Soon along the eastern rim 

Light shall steal, and silver mist 
Flash to rose, and uplands dim 

Wake in folds of amethyst. 
Soon shall tidings twilight told, 

Soon shall pathways starlight drew, 
Vanish in the morning's gold, 

Hide behind the noonday's blue 

Now, till morn, remain our own 

Magic shores of old surmise, 
Peaks no morning can dethrone, 

Lands that know no boundaries. 
There the unfulfilled abides ; 

There the touch of night unbars 
Gates of ways that noonday hides, 

Paths that reach beyond the stars. 

Sidney Royse Lysaght. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 

[From the " Poem-booh of Fionn.] 

Once I was yellow-haired, and ringlets fell 

In clusters round my brow ; 
Grizzled and sparse to-night my short grey crop, 

No lustre in it now 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 3II 

Better to me the shining locks of youth, 

Or raven's dusky hue, 
Than dear old age, which chilly wisdom brings, 

If what they say be true. 

I only know that as I pass the road 

No woman looks my way ; 
They think my head and heart alike are cold — 

Yet I have had my day. 

Eleanor Hull 



GROWING OLD. 

We'll fill a Provence bowl and pledge us deep 
The memory of the far ones, and between 

The soothing pipes in heavy-lidded sleep 

Perhaps we'll dream the things that once had been. 

'Tis only noon and yet too soon to die, 

Yet we are growing old, my heart and I. 

A hundred books are ready in my head 
To open out where Beauty bent a leaf, 

What do we want with beauty ? We are wed 
Like ancient Proserpine to dismal grief, 

And we are changing with the hours that fly, 

And growing odd and old, my heart and I. 

Across a bed of bells the river flows, 
And roses dawn, but not for us ; we want 

The new thing ever as the old thing grows 
Spectral and weary on the hills we haunt, 

And that is why we feast and that is why 

We're growing odd and old, my heart and I. 

Francis E. Ledwidge. 



312 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 



I WILL FORGET. 



I will forget 
The moaning of the sea about Aran ; 

Green beaches wet, 

And grey rocks barren — 
The sea-moan, against rocks that hinder and let ! 
(I said, and in my saying, remembered yet.) 

I am the cry of the sea 
Moaning about the rocks of Aran. 
Ye are the rocks, cold rocks unmoved by me, 

dark-eyed people of Aran. 

1 will forget 

The dark-eyed people of the Isles of the Old Sea : 
Mairead-bheag, and Donal who talked with the Sidh 
The dark-eyed people have their own fret, 

Have their own glee. 

I will forget, 
(I say, and in my saying, remember yet.) 

Altce Furlong. 



FROM THE BURREN. 

No hint, no touch of grim utility, 

Earth's busy functions sleep abandoned here ; 
Corn-grower, root-grower, nourisher of grain, 

All are forgotten ; nakedly austere. 
Nought but herself, her inmost core, survives, 

Stripped to the elements ; enskyed and pure, 
Remote, and stern, and coldly sanctified ; 

Pale as a ghost, yet rock-fast to endure. 

And therefore, Burren hills, to me you seem 
Shrines meet for that which is, and which is not ; 

Approach, beloved ones ! Hasten ! All is clear, 
No bidding need you — you the unforgot ! 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 313 

The door stands open ; only come, ah, come ; 

Come from your far-off realms, with noiseless tread, 
Come as you were, no dearer could you be — 

The Loved, the Lost, the Sundered and the Dead ! 

Wide glistening pavements fit for ghostly feet, 

Where never thought of mart or street intrude, 
Only from ledge to ledge spent rain-drops drip, 

And half-heard tinklings stir the solitude. 
Imponderable wanderers ! Shadowy all ! 

Ghost after ghost ; half- veiled ; grey muffled ; while 
With spirit-looks, visions seen in sleep, 

Eyes seem to glimmer, lips austerely smile. 

Again at dusk-time, or when moonbeams lie 

Far on the sheeted silence, fold on fold ; 
Then with a swifter sequence, soft as light, 

Life's semblances enwrap this shadowy cold 
Like autumn leaves, like high-borne clouds, they come — 

Strange shapes ; and others, others, ah, not strange ! 
Not strange, God knows, but intimately dear, 

Untouched by time, defiant of all change. 

And therefore, Burren hills, grey Burren hills, 

Soul of fierce Clare, wild West of all our West, 
No mindless tract of earth or strand thou seem'st, 

Such as dull maps and solemn charts attest. 
Here 'mid your solitudes, as 'mid the crowds, 

Alike for me thou shinest, realm apart ; 
Open to all we pine for, pray for, hope ; 

Sanctified Home-land of th' unchanging heart. 

Emily Lawless. 



THE WEAVER. 

I was the child that passed long hours away 
Chopping red beetroot in the hay-piled barn ; 

Now must I spend the wind-blown April day 
Minding great looms and tying knots in yarn. 



314 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Once long ago I tramped through rain and slush, 
In brown waves breaking up the stubborn soil, 

I wove and wove the twilight's purple hush 
To fold about the furrowed heart of toil. 

Strange fire and frosts burnt out the seasons' dross ; 

I watched slow Powers the woven cloth reveal, 
While God stood counting out His gain and loss, 

And Day and Night pushed on the heavy wheel. 

Held close against the breast of living Powers — 
A little pulse, yet near the heart of strife, 

I followed the slow plough for hours and hours, 
Minding through sun and shower the loom of life. 

The big winds, harsh and clear and strong and salt, 
Blew through my soul and all the world rang true, 

In all things born I knew no stain or fault, 
My heart was soft to every flower that grew. 

The cabbages in my small garden patch 

Were rooted in the earth's heart ; wings unseen 

Throbbed in the silence under the dark thatch, 
And brave birds sang long ere the boughs were 
green. 

Once did I labour at the living stuff 

That holds the fire, the water and the wind ; 

Now do I weave the garments coarse and rough 
That some vain men have made for vain mankind. 

Eva Gore-Booth. 



COIRE DUBH LINN. 

The voices of the curlew crying on the air 
Floated about the silence of the hills. 

The brooding visage of the mountains bare 

Seemed the mute passion of a thousand wills. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 315 

From the black waters of the dizzy pool 

Cupped in the rocky sharpness of their sides, 

Enchantments curled up to their foreheads cool, 
Like a large gesture that reveals and hides. 

Then thro' the tangled network of my mind 
I sank, as down a steep and endless well ; 

A sudden darkness and a rushing wind 
And a sharp terror caught me as I fell. 

So I saw God : as like a man may see 
The Spectral Beauty and be living still, 

His snowy hair flowed thro' eternity, 

And His quick eyes searched out my secret will. 

Then shining rainbows hid Him wholly up. 

But a large peace had filled me at the sight : 
Like crystal waters in a golden cup, 

Brimming above the sides into the light. 

Darrell Figgis. 



GHOSTS. 

The nettle chokes the beaten earth, 
The ivy-tree the stone — 

The living dead must mind 

The walls that were their own. 

The living dead must surely mind 
The constant stream that spills 

Into a granite pool 

Between the folding hills. 

It twists about, it trickles thro' 
And with a hollow sound, 

It spills into the pool, 
And gurgles underground. 



3l6 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY 

Last night, last night, as I came by 

The ruins grey and bare, 
I heard a human voice 

Make music on the air 

For tho' the nettle chokes the earth, 

The ivy-tree the stone, 
The living dead must mind 

The walls that were their own. 

I looked, and lo, the driven moon 

Hid in a bank of cloud ; 
And when it shone I saw 

A woman in her shroud 

She sang, and washed a wooden churn 

All in the water white : 
Her hair was in the stream, 

Her shroud was spun of light. 

She washed, and coloured bubbles foamed, 

About her fallen hair ; 
And human laughter rang 

Into the icy air. 

It seemed the pool was white with feet, 

The darkness bright with eyes, 
The ruins warm with song, 

With laughter and with sighs. 

For though the nettle chokes the earth, 

The ivy-tree the stone, 
The living dead must mind 

The walls that were their own. 

Joseph Campbell. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY 317 



THE OMEN. 

From out its chamber, green and high, 
A bird leap'd forth at break of day, 

And speeding o'er the wood, came nigh 
Where two great glittering armies lay. 

It swooped aside, and clamour stirred 
The pale grey region where it flew ; 

And wavering down the plain, the bird 
Reach'd the calm river-nook it knew. 

But neither army paused nor spoke, 
And one read foul and one read fair ; 

And straight the storm of battle broke, 
With ruin here and triumph there. 

At eve the bird flew back again, 

The plain beneath now bare and wide ; 

Stars throng'd, the skies were fleec'd, in pain 
The stricken warrior turn'd and died. 

From cape to mountain beacons gleamed, 
And cities waked with peal and blare. 

Head under wing it slept, nor dream' d 
Of that wild symbol traced in air. 

"John Eglinton." 



DIMINUTIVUS ULULANS. 

[To John Macnamara.] 

Wailing diminutive of me, be still ; 

Or cry, but spare me that regretful tone, — 
Of sorrows elemental waxing shrill, 

O you of living things the most alone ! 

Son, do you thus reproach me and make moan, 



3l8 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Because upon Love's chariot I did fly 
And a horn winded in the great unknown, 

Calling your atoms out to be an I ? 

Should I have let you in abeyance lie, 
Disintegrate another million years ? 

Then use your life to teach you how to die 
And pass again beyond the reach of tears, 

Some day you may regret I dragged you thence, 

Perhaps forgive the vast impertinence. 

Francis Macnamara. 



THE MARSEILLAISE. 

What means this mighty chant, wherein its wail 
Of some intolerable woe, grown strong 
With sense of more intolerable wrong 

Swells to a stern victorious march — a gale 

Of vengeful wrath ? What mean the faces pale, 
The fierce resolve, the ecstatic pangs along 
Life's fiery ways, the demon thoughts which throng 

The gates of awe, when these wild notes assail 
The sleeping of our souls ? Hear ye no more 

Than the mad foam of revolution's leaven, 
Than a roused people's throne-o'erwhelming tread ? 

Hark ! 'tis man's spirit thundering on the shore 
Of iron fate ; the tramp of Titans dread, 

Sworn to dethrone the Gods unjust from Heaven. 

John Todhunter. 



THE STARS SANG IN GOD'S GARDEN. 

I. 

The stars sang in God's garden, 
The stars are the birds of God ; 

The night-time is God's harvest, 
Its fruits are the words of God. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 319 

God ploughed His fields in the morning, 

God sowed His seed at noon, 
God reaped and gathered in His corn 

With the rising of the moon. 

The sun rose up at midnight, 

The sun rose red as blood, 
It showed the Reaper, the dead Christ, 

Upon His cross of wood. 

For many live that One may die, 
And One must die that many live — 

The stars are silent in the sky 
Lest my poor songs be fugitive. 



I SEE HIS BLOOD UPON THE ROSE. 

II. 

I see His blood upon the rose 

And in the stars the glory of His eyes, 

His body gleams amid eternal snows, 
His tears fall from the skies. 

In see His face in every flower ; 

The thunder and the singing of the birds 
Are but His voice — and carven by His power 

Rocks are His written words. 

All pathways by His feet are worn, 

His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea, 

His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn, 
His cross is every tree. 

Joseph Plunkett. 



320 BOOK OF IRISH POETRV. 



WHAT IS WHITE ? 

What is white ? 

The soul of the sage, faith-lit, 
The trust of Age, 

The infant's untaught wit. 
What more white ? 

The face of Truth made known, 
The Voice of Youth 

Singing before her throne. 



Thomas MacDonagh 



ALAS THAT SPRING SHOULD VANISH WITH 
THE ROSE. 

[From the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.] 

Myself when young did eagerly frequent 
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument 

About it and around, but evermore 
Came out by the same Door as in I went. 

With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow, 
And with my own hand labour'd it to grow : 
And this was all the harvest that I reap'd — 
" I came like Water, and like Wind I go." 

Into this Universe, and why not knowing, 
Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing ! 
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, 
I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing. 

What, without asking, hither hurried whence ? 
And, without asking, whither hurried hence ! 

Another and another Cup to drown 
The memory of this Impertinence ! 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 321 

There was a Door to which I found no Key : 
There was a Veil past which I could not see : 

Some little Talk awhile of Me and Thee 
There seemed — and then no more of Thee and Me 

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose ! 
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close ! 

The Nightingale that in the Branches sang, 
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows ? 

Ah, Love ! could thou and I with fate conspire 
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, 
Would not we shatter it to bits — and then 
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire ! 

Ah, Moon of my Delight, who know'st no wane, 
The Moon of Heaven is rising once again : 

How oft hereafter rising shall she look 
Through this same Garden after me — in vain ! 

And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass 
Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass 

And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot 
Where I made one — turn down an empty Glass ! 

Edward Fitzgerald. 



THE END OF ALL. 

[From the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.] 

The worldly hope men set their hearts upon 
Turns ashes — or it prospers ; and anon, 
Like snow upon the desert's dusty face, 
Lighting a little hour or two — is gone. 

Think in this battered caravanserai, 
Whose portals are alternate night and day, 

How Sultan after Sultan with his pomp 
Abode his destined hour, and went his way. 



322 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

They saw the lion and the lizard keep 

The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep ; 

And Bahram, that great hunter — the wild ass 
Stamps o'er his head, but cannot break his sleep. 

I sometimes think that never blows so red 
The rose as where some buried Caesar bled ; 

That every hyacinth the garden wears 
Dropped in her lap from some once lovely head. 

And this reviving herb whose tender green 
Fledges the river-lip on which we lean, — 

Ah, lean upon it lightly, for who knows 
From what once lovely lip it springs unseen ! 

Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears 
To-day of past regret and future fears : 

To-morrow !• — why, to-morrow I may be 
Myself with yesterday's seven thousand years. 

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best 
That from his vintage rolling Time hath prest, 

Have drunk their cup a round or two, before, 
And one by one crept silently to rest. 

And we, that now make merry in the room 
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, 

Ourselves must we beneath the couch of earth 
Descend — ourselves to make a couch — for whom ? 

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, 
Before we too into the dust descend ; 

Dust into dust, and under dust, to lie 
Sans wine, sans songs, sans singer, and — sans end ! 

Edward Fitzgerald. 



SPIRITUAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 323 



THE TOUCHSTONE. 

A man there came, whence none could tell, 
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand ; 
And tested all things in the land 

By its unerring spell. 

Quick birth of transmutation smote 
The fair to foul, the foul to fair ; 
Purple nor ermine did he spare, 

Nor scorn the dusty coat. 

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, 
Were many changed to chips and clods, 
And even statues of the Gods 

Crumbled beneath its touch. 

Then angrily the people cried, 

" The loss outweighs the profit far ; 
Our goods suffice us as they are ; 

We will not have then tried." 

And since they could not so prevail 
To check this unrelenting guest, 
They seized him, saying — " Let him test 

How real it is, our jail ! " 

But, though they slew him with the sword, 
And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd, 
Its doings could not be o'erturned, 

Its undoings restored. 

And when to stop all future harm, 

They strew' d its ashes on the breeze ; 
They little guess'd each grain of these 

Convey' d the perfect charm. 



324 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

North, south, in rings and amulets, 

Throughout the crowded world 'tis borne ; 
Which, as a fashion long outworn, 

Its ancient mind forgets. 

William Allingham. 



MAN OCTIPARTITE. 

[From the Middle Irish.] 

Thus sang the sages of the Gael : 

A thousand years ago well nigh ; 

" Hearken how the Lord on high 
Wrought man, to breathe and laugh and wail, 
To hunt and war, to plough and sail, 

To love and teach, to pray and die ! " 

Then said the sages of the Gael : 

" Of parcels eight was Adam built, 

The first was earth, the second sea, 

The third and fourth were sun and cloud, 

The fifth was wind, the sixth was stone, 

The seventh was the Holy Ghost, 

The last, the Light which lighteth God." 

Then sang the sages of the Gael : 

" Man's body first was built of earth 

To lodge a living soul from birth, 

And earthward home again to go 

When Time and Death have spoken so. 

Then of the sea his blood was dight 

To bound in love and flow in fight. 

Next, of the sun, to see the skies, 

His face was framed with shining eyes. 

From hurrying hosts of cloud was wrought 

His roaming, rapid-changeful thought. 



SPIRITUAL Alsp PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY. 325 

Then of the wind was made his breath 
To come and go from birth to death. 
And then of earth-sustaining stone 
Was built his flesh-upholding bone 

The Holy Ghost, like cloven flame, 
The substance of his soul became ; 
Of Light which lighteth God was made 
Man's conscience, so that unafraid 
His soul through haunts of night and sin 
May pass and keep all clean within. 

" Now, if the earthiness redound, 
He lags through life a slothful hound, 
But, if it be the sea that sways, 
In wild unrest he wastes his days. 
Whene'er the sun is sovran, there 
The heart is light, the face is fair. 
If clouds prevail, he lives in dreams 
A deedless life of gloom and gleams, 
If stone bear rule, he masters men, 
And ruthless is their ransom then. 
But when the wind has won command, 
His word is harder than his hand. 
The Holy Ghost, if He prevail, 
Man lives exempt from lasting bale, 
And, gazing with the eyes of God, 
Of all he sees at home, abroad, 
Discerns the inmost heart, and then 
Reveals it to his fellow-men, 
And they are truer, gentler, more 
Heroic than they were before. 

" But he on whom the Light Divine 
Is lavished bears the sacred sign, 
And men draw nigh in field or mart 
To hear the wisdom of his heart. 
For he is calm and clear of face, 
And unperplexed he runs his race, 



326 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Because his mind is always bent 
On Right, regardless of event. 

" Of each of those eight things decreed 
To make and mould the human breed, 
Let more or less in man and man 
Be set as God has framed His plan; 
But still there is a ninth in store — 
(Oh grant it now and evermore ! ) 
Our Freedom, wanting which, we read. 

The bulk of earth, the strength of stone, 
The bounding life o' the sea, the speed 

Of comets, the splendour of the sun, 
The never-flagging light of wind, 

The fervour of the Holy Ghost, 

The Light before the angels' host — 
Though all be in our frame combined, 
Grow tainted, yea, of no avail." 

So sang the sages of the Gael. 

Whitley Stokes. 



RELIGIOUS POETRY, 



? 2 ? 



PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER, 

Blessing from the Lord on High 
Over Munster fall and lie ; 
To her sons and daughters all 
Choicest blessings still befall ; 
Fruitful blessing on the soil 
That supports her faithful toil ! 

Blessing full of ruddy health, 
Blessing full of every wealth 
That her borders furnish forth, 
East and West and South and North ; 
Blessing from the Lord on High 
Over Munster fall and lie ! 

Blessing on her peaks in air, 
Blessing on her flag-stones bare ; 
Blessing from her ridges flow 
To her grassy glens below ; 
Blessing from the Lord on High 
Over Munster fall and lie ! 

As the sands upon the shore 
Underneath her ships, for store, 
Be her hearths, a twinkling host 
Over mountain, plain, and coast ! 
Blessing from the Lord on High 
Over Munster fall and lie ! 



3=8 



RELIGIOUS POETRY. 



THE BREASTPLATE OF ST. PATRICK. 

I invoke, upon my path 

To the king of Ireland's rath, 

The Almighty power of the Trinity ; 
Through belief in the Threeness, 
Through confession of the Oneness 

Of the Maker's Eternal Divinity. 

I invoke, on my journey arising, 

The power of Christ's Birth and Baptizing, 

The powers of the hours of His dread Crucifixion, 

Of His Death and Abode in the Tomb, 
The power of the hour of his glorious Resurrection 

From out the Gehenna of gloom, 
The power of the hour when to Heaven He ascended, 
And the power of the hour when by Angels attended 
He returns for the Judgment of Doom ! 
On my perilous way 
To Tara to-day, 
I, Patrick, God's servant, 
Invoke from above, 
The Cherubim's love ! 
Yea ! I summon the might of the Company fervent 
Of Angel obedient, ministrant Archangel 
To speed and to prosper my Irish Evangel, 
I go forth on my path in the trust 
Of the gathering to God of the Just ; 
In the power of the Patriarchs' prayers ; 
The foreknowledge of Prophets and Seers ; 

329 



330 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

The Apostles' pure preaching ; 
The Confessors' sure teaching ; 
The virginity blest of God's Dedicate Daughters, 
And the lives and the deaths of His Saints and His 
Martyrs ! 
I arise to-day in the strength of the heaven, 
The glory of the sun, 
The radiance of the moon, 
The splendour of fire and the swiftness of the levin, 
The wind's flying force, 
The depth of the sea, 
The earth's steadfast course, 
The rock's austerity. 
I arise on my way, 
With God's Strength for my stay, 
God's Might to protect me, 
God's Wisdom to direct me, 
God's Eye to be my providence, 
God's Ear to take my evidence, 
God's Word my words to order, 
God's Hand to be my warder, 
God's Way to lie before me, 
God's Shield and Buckler o'er me, 
God's Host Unseen to save me, 

From each ambush of the Devil, 

From each vice that would enslave me, 
And from all who wish me evil, 

Whether far I fare or near, 
Alone or in a multitude. 

All these Hierarchies and Powers 

I invoke to intervene, 
When the Adversary lowers 

On my path, with purpose keen 
Of vengeance black and bloody 
On my soul and on my body ; 
I bind these Powers to come 

Against Druid counsel dark, 
The black craft of Pagandom, 



RELIGIOUS POETRY. 33 1 

And the false heresiarch, 
The spells of wicked women, 
And the wizard's arts inhuman, 
And every knowledge, old and fresh, 
Corruptive of manis soul and flesh. 

May Christ on my way 
To Tara to-day, 
Shield me from poison 
Shield me from fire, 
Drowning or wounding 

By enemy's ire, 
So that mighty fruition 
May follow my mission. 
Christ behind and before me, 
Christ beneath me and o'er me, 
Christ within and without me, 
Christ with and about me, 
Christ on my left and Christ on my right, 
Christ with me at morn and Christ with me at night ; 
Christ in each heart that shall ever take thought of me 
Christ in each mouth that shall ever speak aught of me; 
Christ in each eye that shall ever on me fasten, 
Christ in each ear that shall ever to me listen. 
I invoke, upon my path 
To the King of Ireland's rath, 

The Almighty power of the Trinity ; 
Through belief in the Threeness, 
Through confession of the Oneness 
Of the Maker's Eternal Divinity. 



A PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN. 

Gentle Mary, Noble Maiden, 
Hearken to our suppliant pleas ! 

Shrine God's only Son was laid in ! 
Casket of the Mysteries ! 



332 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Holy Maid, pure Queen of Heaven, 

Intercession for us make, 
That each hardened heart's transgression 

May be pardoned for Thy sake. 

Bent in loving pity o'er us, 

Through the Holy Spirit's power, 
Pray the King of Angels for us 
In Thy Visitation hour. 

Branch of Jesse's tree whose blossoms 
Scent the heavenly hazel wood, 

Pray for me for full purgation 
Of my bosom's turpitude. 

Mary, crown of splendour glowing, 

Dear destroyer of Eve's ill, 
Noble torch of Love far-showing, 

Fruitful Stock of God's good will ; 

Heavenly Virgin, Maid transcendent 
Yea, He willed that Thou shouldst be 

His fair Ark of Life Resplendent, 
His pure Queen of Chastity. 

Mother of all good, to free me, 

Interceding at my side, 
Pray Thy First-Born to redeem me, 

When the Judgment books are wide ; 

Star of knowledge, rare and noble, 
Tree of many-blossoming sprays, 

Lamp to light our night of trouble, 
Sun to cheer our weary days. 

Ladder to the Heavenly Highway, 
Whither every Saint ascends, 

Be a safeguard still, till my way 
In Thy glorious Kingdom ends. 



RELIGIOUS POETRY. 333 

Covert fair of sweet protection, 

Chosen for a Monarch's rest, 
Hostel for nine months' refection 

Of a Noble Infant Guest. 

Glorious Heavenly Porch, whereunder, 

So the day star sinks his head, 
God's Own Son — O saving wonder ! 

Jesus was incarnated ; 

For the fair Babe's sake conceived 
In Thy womb and brought to birth, 

For the Blest Child's sake received 
Now as King of Heaven and Earth ; 

For His Rood's sake ! starker, steeper 

Hath no other cross been set, 
For His Tomb's sake ! darker, deeper 

There hath been no burial yet ; 

By His Blessed Resurrection, 

When He triumphed o'er the tomb, 

By the Church of His affection 
During till the Day of Doom — 

Safeguard our unblest behaviour, 

Till behind Death's blinding veil, 
Face to Face, we see our Saviour, 

This our prayer is : Hail ! All Hail ! 



COLUMBKILLE'S FAREWELL, 

Alas for the voyage, O high King of Heaven, 

Enjoined upon me, 
For that I on the red plain of bloody Cooldrevin 

Was present to see. 



334 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

How happy the son is of Dima ; no sorrow 

For him is designed, 
He is having, this hour, round his own hill in Durrow, 

The wish of his mind. 

The sounds of the winds in the elms, like the strings of 

A harp being played, 
The note of a blackbird that claps with the wings of 

Delight in the glade. 

With him in Ros-Grencha the cattle are lowing 

At earliest dawn, 
On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooing 

And doves in the lawn. 

Three things am I leaving behind me, the very 

Most dear that I know, 
Tir-Leedach I'm leaving, and Durrow and Derry ; 

Alas, I must go ! 

Yet my visit and feasting with Comgall have eased me 

At Cainneach's right hand, 
And all but thy government, Eirie, have pleased me, 

Thou waterful land. 

Douglas Hyde. 



ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT. 

Shame upon my thoughts, O shame ! 

How they fly in order broken, 
Much therefore I feel the blame 

When the Trump of Doom has spoken. 

At my psalms, they oft are set 

On the path the Fiend must pave them ; 
Evermore, with fash and fret, 

In God's sight they misbehave them. 



RELIGIOUS POETRY. 335 

Through contending crowds they fleet, 

Companies of wanton women, 
Silent wood or strident street, 

Swifter than the breezes skimming. 

Now through paths of loveliness, 

Now through ranks of shameful riot, 

Onward ever more they press, 
Fledged with folly and disquiet 

O'er the Ocean's sounding deep 

Now they flash like fiery levin ; 
Now at one vast bound they leap 

Up from earth into the heaven. 

Thus afar and near they roam 

On their race of idle folly ; 
Till at last to reason's home 

They return right melancholy. 

Would you bind them wrist to wrist — 

Foot to foot the truants shackle, 
From your toils away they twist 

Into air with giddy cackle. 

Crack of whip or edge of steel 

Cannot hold them in your keeping ; 

With the wriggle of an eel 

From your grasp they still go leaping. 

Never yet was fetter found, 

Never lock contrived, to hold them ; 
Never dungeon underground, 

Moor or mountain keep controlled them 

Thou Whose glance alone makes pure, 

Searcher of all hearts and Saviour, 
With Thy Sevenfold Spirit cure 

My stray thoughts' unblessed behaviour. 



336 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

God of earth, air, fire and flood, 
Rule me, rule me in such measure, 

That, to my eternal good, 
I may live to love Thy pleasure. 

Christ's own flock thus may I reach, 
At the flash of Death's sharp sickle, 

Just in deed, of steadfast speech, 
Not, as now, infirm and fickle. 



THE MONK AND HIS WHITE CAT. 

Pangar, my white cat, and I 

Silent ply our special crafts ; 
Hunting mice his one pursuit, 

Mine to shoot keen spirit shafts. 

Rest I love, all fame beyond, 

In the bond of some rare book ; 

Yet white Pangar from his play 
Casts, my way, no jealous look. 

Thus alone within one cell 

Safe we dwell — not dull the tale — 
Since his ever favourite sport 

Each to court will never fail. 

Now a mouse, to swell his spoils, 
In his toils he spears with skill ; 

Now a meaning deeply thought 
I have caught with startled thrill. 

Now his green full-shining gaze 
Darts its rays against the wall ; 

Now my feebler glances mark 
Through the dark bright knowledge fall. 



RELIGIOUS POETRY 337 

Leaping up with joyful purr, 

In mouse fur his sharp claw sticks, 
Problems difficult and dear 

With my spear I, too, transfix. 

Crossing not each other's will. 

Diverse still, yet still allied, 
Following each his own lone ends, 

Constant friends we here abide. 

Pangar, master of his art, 

Plays his part in pranksome youth ; 
While, in age sedate, I clear 

Shadows from the sphere of Truth 



THE SCRIBE. 

[From the Irish of Saint Columbkille.] 

For weariness my hand writes ill, 

My small, sharp quill runs rough and slow ; 

Its slender beak with failing craft 

Puts forth its draught of dark, blue flow. 

And yet God's blessed wisdom gleams 
And streams beneath my fair-brown palm 

The while quick jets of holly ink 
The letters link of prayer or psalm. 

So, still my dripping pen is fain 

To cross the plain of parchment white, 

Unceasing at some rich man's call, 
Till wearied all am I to-night. 



338 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

QUATRAINS FROM THE EARLY IRISH 

Hospitality. 

Whether my house is dark or bright, 
I close it not on any wight, 
Lest Thou, hereafter, King of Stars, 
Against me close Thy Heavenly bars. 

If from a guest who shares thy board, 
Thy dearest dainty thou shall hoard, 
'Tis not that guest, O do not doubt it, 
But Mary's Son shall do without it. 



THE SEA-GOING BARK. 

[From the Irish of King and Bishop, Cormac Mac Culennain, 
837-903.] 

Shall I loose my dusky little coracle 

On the glorious, deep, wide-bosomed ocean ? 
Shall I face, O Heaven's bright King and Oracle, 

Of my own free will the salt commotion ? 

Whether narrow in Thy sight or wide it be, 
Served by few or by a host in number, 

O my God, wilt Thou Thyself beside it be, 
When my struggling bark the billows cumber 



THE SHAVING OF MURDOCH. 

[By Muiredach O'Daly, late twelfth century, when he and Cathal 
of the Red Hand, King of Connaught, entered the monastic life 
together.] 

Murdoch, whet thy razor's edge, 

Our crowns to pledge to Heaven's Ardrigh ! 

Vow we now our hair fine-tressed 
To the Blessed Trinity ! 



RELIGIOUS POETRY 339 

Now my head I shear to Mary ; 

'Tis a true heart's very due. 
Shapely, soft-eyed chieftain now 

Shear thy brow to Mary, too ! 

Seldom on thy brow, fair chief, 

Hath a barbing knife been plied ; 
Oft the fairest of Princesses 

Combed her tresses at thy side. 

Whenso'er that we did bathe 

We found no scathe, yourself and I, 

With Brian of the well-curled locks, 
From hidden rocks and currents wry. 

And well I mind what once befell 

Beside the well of fair Boru — 
I swam a race with Ua Chais 

The icy flood of Fergus through. 

When hand to hand the bank we reached, 
Swift foot to foot we stretched again, 

Till Duncan Cairbre, chief of chiefs, 
Gave us three knives — not now in vain. 

No other blades such temper have ; 

Then Murdoch shave with easy art ; 
Whet, Cathal of the Wine Red Hand, 

Thy victor brand, in peaceful part. 

Then our shorn heads from weather wild 

Shield, Daughter mild of Joachim, 
Preserve us from the sun's fierce power, 

Mary, soft flower of Jesse's stem. 



340 BOOK OF IRISH P0ETR1. 



CONSECRATION 

[By Murdoch O'Daly, called Murdoch "the Scotchman" 
(Muiredach Albanach) , on account of his affection for that 
country ; born in Connaught towards the close of the 
twelfth century.] 

How great the tale, that there should be, 
In God's Son's heart, a place for me ! 
That on a sinner's lips like mine, 
The cross of Jesus Christ should shine ! 

Christ Jesus bend me to Thy will, 
My feet to urge, my griefs to still ; 
That even my flesh and blood may be 
A temple sanctified to Thee. 

No rest, no calm, my soul may win, 
Because my body craves to sin ; 
Till Thou, dear Lord, Thyself impart 
Peace to my head, light to my heart. 

May consecration come from far, 
Soft shining like the evening star ! 
My toilsome path make plain to me, 
Until I come to rest in Thee. 

Translation by Eleanor Hull. 



HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 

[By Maelisu, 900 to 1030.] 

O Holy Spirit, hasten to us ! 
Move round about us, in us, through us ! 
All our deadened souls' desires 
Inflame anew with heavenly fires. 



RELIGIOUS POETRY. 34 1 

Yea ! let each heart become a hostel 
Of Thy bright Presence Pentecostal, 
Whose power from pestilence and slaughter 
Shall shield us still by land and water. 

From bosom sins, seducing devils, 
From Hell with all its hundred evils, 
For Jesus' only sake and merit, 
Preserve us, Thou Almighty Spirit. 



MAELISUS HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL 
MICHAEL 

Angel and Saint, 

O Michael of the Oracles, 

O Michael of great miracles, 
Bear to the Lord my plaint ! 

Hear my request ! 
Ask of the great, forgiving God 
To lift this vast and grievous load 

Of sin from off my breast 

Why, Michael, tarry 

My fervent prayer with upward wing 
Unto the King, the great High King 

Of Heaven and earth, to carry. 

Unto my soul 
Bring help, bring comfort, yea bring power, 
To win release in death's black hour 

From sin, distress and dole. 

Till as devoutly 

My fading eyes seek Heaven's height, 
To meet me with the myriads bright 

Do thou adventure stoutly. 



342 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Captain of Hosts, 

Against earth's wicked, crooked clan, 
To aid me, lead thy battle van 

And quell their boasts. 

Archangel glorious, 

Disdain not now thy suppliant urgent, 
But over every sin insurgent 

Set me victorious. 

Thou art my choosing ! 

That with my body, soul and spirit 

Eternal life I may inherit, 
Thine aid be not refusing. 

In my sore need 

O Thou of Anti-Christ the slayer, 
Triumphant Victor, to my prayer 

Give heed, O now give heed ! 



THE SOUL'S DESIRE. 

[Author and date unknown^ 

It were my soul's desire 
To see the face of God ; 

It were my soul's desire 
To rest in His abode. 

It were my soul's desire 
To study zealously ; 

This, too, my soul's desire, 
A clear rule set for me. 

It were my soul's desire 
A spirit free from gloom ; 

It were my soul's desire 
New life beyond the Doom. 



RELIGIOUS POETRY. 343 

It were my soul's desire 

To shun the chills of hell ; 
Yet more my soul's desire 

Within His house to dwell. 

It were my soul's desire 

To imitate my King, 
It were my soul's desire 

His ceaseless praise to sing. 

It were my soul's desire, 
When heaven's gate is won, 

To find my soul's desire 
Clear shining like the sun. 

Grant, Lord, my soul's desire, 
Deep waves of cleansing sighs ; 

Grant, Lord, my soul's desire 
From earthly cares to rise. 

This still my soul's desire — 

Whatever life afford — 
To gain my soul's desire 

And see Thy face, O Lord. 

Translated by Eleanor Hull. 



THE FEILIRE OF ADAMNAN. 

[Ancient Irish Litany.] 

[Though ascribed to St. Adamnan, Abbot of Iona 
(died 704), the biographer of St. Columba, the piece, 
judging by its languages, is later.] 

Saints of Four Seasons ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

Loving, I pray to you ; longing, I say to you : 

Save me from angers, dreeings, and dangers ! 

Saints of Four Seasons ! 

Saints of the Year ! 



344 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

Saints of Green Springtime ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

Patraic and Grighair, Brighid be near ! 

My last breath gather with God's Foster Father ! 

Saints of Green Springtime ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

Saints of Gold Summer ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

(Poesy wingeth me ! Fancy far bringeth me !) 

Guide ye me on to Mary's Sweet Son ! 

Saints of Gold Summer ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

Saints of Red Autumn ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

Lo ! I am cheery ! Michil and Mary 

Open wide Heaven to my soul bereaven ! 

Saints of Red Autumn ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

Saints of Grey Winter ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

Outside God's Palace fiends wait in malice — 

Let them not win my soul going in ! 

Saints of Grey Winter ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

Saints of Four Seasons ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

Waking or sleeping, to my grave creeping, 

Life in its Night, hold me God's light ! 

Saints of Four Seasons ! 

Saints of the Year ! 

Patrick J. McCall. 



RELIGIOUS POETRY. 345 

CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

[From the Irish.} 

Hail to thee, thou holy Babe, 

In the manger now so poor, 
Yet so rich Thou art, I ween, 

High within the highest door. 

Little Babe who art so great, 
Child so young who art so old, 

In the manger small His room 
Whom not heaven itself could hold. 

Motherless, with mother here, 

Fatherless, a tiny span, 
Ever God in heaven's height, 

First to-night becoming man. 

Father — not more old than thou ? 

Mother — younger, can it be ! 
Older, younger is the Son, 

Younger, older, she than he. 

Douglas Hyde. 



A CONFESSION FOR FORGIVENESS 

[From the Later Irish.] 

Outstretched on this bed, 

As if for the tomb, 
To make my confession, 

Lord, toward Thee I come ! 

For all deeds of the flesh, 
Alas ! ever fresh, 
111 thoughts of the mind 
That mv secret soul find ; 



34^ BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. 

For my eyes' lawless roving, 
My ears' lawless hearing, 

My lips' lawless moving, 
My steps, sin ward steering ; 

For everything spoken 
Or acted untrue ; 

For promises broken 
And broken anew ; 

For every one thing, 

In thought and in deed, 
In deed or in thought, 
Against Thy will wrought, 
Oh, Heavenly King, 

For Thy pardon I plead ! 



THE CONVENT BELL. 

O convent bell ! long, long ago 
Your peal was refuge for my heart ; 

The homeward path you seemed to show 
Lay from the world's ways far apart. 

But now you hammer prison bars — 
I hear the passing children's mirth — 

Above the walls mad dancing stars 
Mingle their music with the earth. 

What though night-long aspiring prayer 

And adoration in my soul 
Ascend as incense through the air 

To wave for me an angel's stole — 

The mother's heart is still more blest, 
When stirring in her arms she feels 

Her baby's hand grope for the breast, 
For heaven her own soul reveals. 



RELIGIOUS POETRY. 347 

O, sad and far, O convent bell ! 

You call to prayer on this May eve ; 
For unborn babes your funeral knell 

Makes Mary mother weep and grieve. 

George Roberts. 



3if?7-7 



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